Gentlemen And Rakes
by The Flying Breadstick
Summary: The elusive enigma that is Jack Sparrow’s life is revealed as he searches for a clue leading to the treasure hoard of an unmarked island in the Pacific Ocean before his one time friend can acquire the plunder... DISCONTINUED
1. A Matter Of Honesty

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Summary: Companion fic to **How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**. The elusive enigma of Jack Sparrow's life is revealed as he searches for a clue leading to the treasure hoard of an unmarked island in the Pacific Ocean… Before his adversary can acquire the plunder and hijack whatever else happens to catch his fancy…

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AN: The (mostly) darker side of How My Perfect Life Was Inverted; in a sense, the same story, but a different perspective and focus, and several chapters of back-story first which will put the chronology of this story way behind my other fanfic. Hope it's worth it though! This will be written in first-person but the PoV will mainly alternate between two people: Jack Sparrow and an OC, Andrew Wilson. There will be other perspectives, but the main one will be Jack's, obviously, with Andrew close behind. Basically the same scenarios from different points of view.

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Disclaimer: I don't own Pirates of the Caribbean; that belongs to the multinational mouse machine. I do, however, own my take on Jack Sparrow's beginnings, the random scenes I've decided to place during the movie and all of the events set after. :P

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Gentlemen And Rakes

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Prologue: A Matter Of Honesty (Jack's PoV)

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Wealth, however got in England makes  
Lords of mechanics, gentlemen of rakes

—Daniel Defoe

People had always asked me, "How'd you stumble upon a life o' piracy, Jack?" either drunkenly or flirtatiously, depending on the gender of the enquirer and which way their sexual preferences swung. I'd always give him or her a sidelong glance; my lips would curl into a knowing smirk, I'd tip back my tankard (and sometimes, through sheer misjudgement, sputter it all out again), lean back on my chair (or stool, as the case may be) and, if the occasion would permit itself, prop my feet upon the table for good measure, and relate my entire life to the small crowd now gathered around me: a tale of intrigue, lust, courage, wit and greed to rival that damnable Robinson Crusoe everyone was gullible enough to take as fact.

What would come out, naturally, was utter bullshit. But it was elaborate bullshit, if I may say so myself, and more probable than the truth could ever be.

No one's ever interested in the truth.

Although, to be honest, I have tried honesty, but gave up when it became apparent that I would be considered a liar no matter what. I just lost faith in honesty; honesty was no longer my friend, no matter how desperately I fought to keep it that way. No really; I was as virtuous as a monk when I first set out to become a pirate.

Honestly.

And let's be honest; half the people who are interested are those I wouldn't turn my back to for three seconds, and as for those that I would… they just weren't interested. My few acquaintances were all just a bunch of self-involved bastards, no insult intended. Excepting Mr Gibbs, but even he preferred my tall tales to the mundane facts. And by the time I'd made my acquaintance with the man, my faith in truth was shattered, so either way it was a lose/lose situation.

All I'm really trying to say is that veracity is worthless to all but the Christian confessor. And even then he'd prefer you'd committed your seven deadly sins with malicious intent than as a case of weakness or misjudgement on your half. (Something about converting the largest number of depraved, debauched swine to the path of righteousness in a bid for sainthood.)

Why am I so cynical, you may ask? Exactly what terribly traumatic event could have befallen me that bred such distrust of the entire human race (and, dare I say it, certain furry, tree-climbing members of the animal kingdom)?

You think it'll be obvious, wouldn't you? Although I tend to keep the tale of Barbossa's backstabbing under wraps to all but a select few, hints of my undergoing a mutiny (although the identities of the principal mutineer and ship were somehow omitted) had in some way leaked out, and it was now a well-known fact that I had been marooned. However, with a reputation as ambiguous as my own, the reasons of why I had been sentenced to the worst of all of piracy's punishments varied from source to source. But returning to my question… Yes, the mutiny and what followed did shake up my faith in humanity to a considerable degree. But it wasn't Barbossa alone that had triggered my suspicion.

You see, Barbossa wasn't the true traitor in this little exploit of mine. It was someone else; a man I had know since childhood, a brother to me.

I hadn't told Joshamee Gibbs of his betrayal. Indeed, I hadn't even told anyone of his existence. Not until I knew for a fact that he was dead; not until I saw him take his last breath before my very eyes.

I'd never forgotten him: don't mistake me for a merciful man, for a man so gracious in his bearing, he would simply forgive and forget such a treachery as that which I had suffered.

I would have been satisfied in my knowledge that he would die a natural death if I had continued to believe that I would never lay eyes upon his perfidious form for as long as I lived.

As it was, I saw him this morning, just as I was leaving the Pint and Garter (one of Tortuga's many establishments of questionable repute). Or rather, attempting to (there were just some critters I couldn't bring myself to shoot, but I'll explain that later).

At this very moment in time, my mind was set on simply one thing: borrowing Anamaria's fishing dinghy. (With every intention of returning it to its rightful owner: what would I need with such a pathetic vessel when I've commandeered His Majesty's finest from Port Royal for my own less-than-patriotic ends?)

I wasn't surprised to see him with his arms around one of the Garter's more desirable whores; like me, he enjoyed the feel of a beautiful woman in his arms. Overhearing my struggle to escape the clutches of such an irresistible sentry, it was the strumpet who'd first appeared, scantily-clad, startled from sleep and looking just as alluring as the night before, if not more so. When my gaze returned to her for a second time after freeing myself from the human vice, I'd noticed the man behind her, his arms wrapped around her waist and looking for all the world like a protective husband. I had the presence of mind to give her the most charming smile I could summon in a state of such rage and abhorrence before taking my leave of the happy couple and my aspiring sentinel.

Knowing him, he'd probably fancied himself to be in love with her. He fell in and out of love so very easily; usually with no harm done to either party. Unless his ardour was such that his fancy turned into obsession: deep, dark, consuming and absolutely destructive to all who were involved. I'd only seen it happen twice before. I pray to God that it won't happen again: the results weren't very pretty in either case.

I might occasionally come across as somewhat eccentric, but it was _he_ who was the madman, Andrew Wilson. And believe me, I should know. I knew him better than anyone else did in the world.

Did you know that it was Andrew Wilson who was the true mutineer in that little catastrophe of ten years ago, not Barbossa?

It's amazing how omitting a person can change the account of my mutiny and marooning completely, isn't it?

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x!x-

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AN: Well, this is all I've got so far; it shows the dark side of the little world I've created, which won't be appearing in How My Perfect Life Was Inverted until somewhere in the middle, towards the end. What do you think of it so far? It'll be set before, during, and mostly after the movie, but the parts set during the film will be "deleted scenes", as it were. Knowing me, I probably won't be updating until a fortnight or so; that's not too bad, is it?

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Review please!


	2. Winchester

**Gentlemen And Rakes**

_Chapter One: Winchester_ (Andrew's PoV)

Was that Jack Sparrow I saw swaggering away! Was it Jack Sparrow who had fought so desperately to fend off the raven-haired girl? The same girl he'd inadvertently injured, the one that I now cradled in my arms as my lover had instructed?

I settled the child down on Sierra's bed, arranging the pillows around her seemingly broken form, and sat beside her. All hopes of rest had fled from me the instant Sierra had moved my arm away.

She was a whore, my Sierra, and a very good one at that. If anything, I don't think she gets paid enough, and as the Pint and Garter contained almost exclusively the very experienced professionals, with the occasional virgin, that was saying quite a lot. But no matter; she won't be a prostitute for much longer. I'll make certain of that.

I can't stop thinking about her. I'd fallen completely and utterly and helplessly, hopelessly in love with her.

_"It'll go away in a day or so," John grinned, looking appreciatively after Alice's retreating back._

Bastard. But then again, Jack Sparrow was very contemptuous when it came to emotions; he always had been, ever since he was a boy and went by a different name…

I snapped back to the present and looked down at the annoying child. "Don't s'pose I could have that lie-in now, do you?" I complained to Sierra.

Her voice, sounding so heavenly mellifluous to my enamoured ears, replied instantly in that strange accent that spoke of both good education and London poverty, "Yeah, well I need my beauty sleep."

A slow grin pulled at my lips. "Then don't invite me to your bed," I advised, silently praying she would not heed it. That damnable child's sniffling put an end to what had promised to be a very interesting discussion. I looked down at the girl, noting well her appearance: raven hair about her shoulders, soft and straight; smooth skin that was neither the fair ivory of her mother nor the rich dark gold of her father; pouting lips that made her look like a wealthy child's china doll.

But it was her eyes that had grabbed my attention: they struck me as being eerie in their resemblance to Sierra's. This girl's eyes were framed by long thick lashes that looked almost artificial when she'd closed them, and the colour of the irises were a bright, clear blue.

They were Sierra's eyes.

When I'd first seen them together, it was their uncannily similar eyes that had made them look like mother and child. I had immediately felt a wave of loathing towards Jack Sparrow for supplying the means of breaking my heart eight years in advance, as he, with his flamboyance and confidence and charisma that caught the eye of every woman I'd ever cared for, as he had done so many times before. It was always happening, back when we'd both made the other's acquaintance.

I felt a wave of envy overwhelm me as Sierra heeded the child's plea for comfort, pulling the young girl towards her as she settled into the bed. I now sat in the chair, looking for all the world like a dead man in his grave as I feigned sleep. I watched as my sweetheart wrapped her graceful arms, bare as she wore only her knee-length chemise, around my solemn foe's child… the child that was not even hers. She whispered once to the girl, looking down at the little beauty in unmistakable adoration before her eyes too closed.

Daybreak was too early for either female to awaken, it seems.

My hungry eyes roamed over Sierra's form, memorising, as I'd taken to doing since I'd first met her eyes the night before, every inch of her being: her faintly-muscled legs, long and graceful as a gazelle's; her smooth abdomen, hidden by the off-white material of her chemise and covered by that loathsome child's arms; the gentle curving of her hips and swelling of her breasts; the smooth sloping of her shoulders; her silky skin, only a shade or so darker than Sparrow's child's; her hair, with the faint traces of curls twisted into the naturally straight tresses, and a dark medium chocolate in colour; her full lips barely parted as she breathed slowly and peacefully.

Yes, I'd only met her last night; but who can control the desires of the heart? Not to mention a few other places…

Looking at the two of them, I felt anxiety begin to gnaw its way through me. Although Jack Sparrow was not fond of his unwanted daughter, I was certain he'd paid more than a passing interest in his child's welfare. And my Sierra seemed a little _too_ fond of a child that was not her relative…

Yes, as long as she held Sparrow's bastard close to her heart, I could never rest for a single moment, knowing that there was a link between my love and my enemy; a link which I had no part in.

So, Jack Sparrow was to become my rival again, was he? It was only a matter of time before his eyes fall upon my Sierra's stunning beauty, and then he'll whisk her away from me and into his arms for a night or two at most… and I'll lose her forever.

He'd done it so many times before, but as his friend I had always forgiven him: Alice, Sarah, Veronica, Georgiana, Maria… But none of them stirred up quite the same emotions as Sierra did. Except for Annette, and Catalina before her…

Before they'd both died…

Do you want to know how I knew Jack Sparrow? Well, here is my story. I remember it all so clearly, as though it were yesterday: my mind conjures up long-forgotten images of boyhood as the weak light of dawn plays across Sierra's pleasing features…

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I was the first son of a wealthy wine merchant trading with the southern coasts of France and northern provinces of Italy, but I was by no means the last. My mother was the youngest daughter of the third Earl of Yorkshire and although beautiful, slightly mad. This was why her father, my grandfather, had been forced to marry her into the common bourgeoisie; any honourable, decent man he'd deemed fit as a husband amongst the peers of the realm were horrified at the very prospect of wedlock with a madwoman. I'd often been told I'd looked like her, and from the various portraits and miniatures of her in my childhood home, this proved to be true.

I'd never seen her from the moment I'd left her womb; my father had ordered that none of his children were allowed within the same room as their mother: a precaution to ensure we were not infected with her contagious insanity. When I was six, my father, with a brood of four strong healthy sons to satisfy him, finally sent her to a madhouse. This was not at all uncommon; indeed, most men took advantage of the law's partiality towards men in that when women married, they were downgraded from a person to their husband's property, to be used as was deemed fit. Most men would keep their wives at home for a few years, find a pretty mistress, and send their wives to a mental asylum, regardless of whether or not the poor women's mind were sound. Not surprisingly, the majority of an asylum's population tended to be female in sex; and a surprising amount were very much sound in mind. Women that were sent to an institution very rarely had any legitimate reason to be there; rather, they were driven to insanity after undergoing the various torture sessions designed to cure them of it.

I grew up surrounded by tutors and instructors in my father's London and country homes, until the age of about ten, when my father decided it was high time I was sent off to one of the few prestigious boarding schools that peers of the realms sent their own children to. He chose Winchester, and it was there that I came across Jack Sparrow, three years after my arrival.

But before I'd met him, I had to endure three years of friendless hell. The majority of the boys there came from noble families, and some even held their own titles and ranks. I was from a wealthy but common background, with a mother well-known throughout the whole of Britain as a mad aristocrat's daughter as my only claim to nobility, and was therefore constantly bullied as a newcomer. It was probably this that first made me despise all of English society: my alienation and distinction from my schoolmates made me feel an outcast, a social leper. So naturally, I very slowly began to consider myself as such. But instead of the overwhelming desire to blend in, I found that, despite, or perhaps, _because_ of all the beatings and insults I received from these boys, I relished standing apart, deliberately differentiating myself from those around me.

Spending all my free time alone, usually hidden in a corner somewhere, I devoted an astonishing amount of time to my thoughts. I found myself already considering my future, and discovered that more and more, my mind drifted towards the possibility of crime: living _outside_ the English law and the rules of society. Not unusual for most boys of that age, I agree, but, unlike others, I _seriously_ considered vice.

I began to spend more and more time and thought toying with the idea: should I become a highwayman? A smuggler? An assassin? A spy? To me, it didn't matter what the medium of corruption _was_, so long as it was immoral; unlike Jack Sparrow, whose love of freedom and adventure and the world's darkest oceans had led him onto the path of piracy, I wished only to rebel. But none of these—smuggling, espionage, murder—had quite the attraction I was hoping for. Besides, I knew it was an impossible dream: as the eldest son, it was my privilege to have my future arranged and waiting for me, not to mention a large estate as a part of my inheritance.

This was where Jack Sparrow came in, with his views and aspirations towards piracy… and he pulled me down with him. But all of this was much, much later.

When I'd first met him, as a schoolboy, he went by the name of John Raven, the seventh son of the second Lord Castlemaine. He was sent to Winchester after his expulsion from his _second_ school: this time it was from Eton, one of the best-known and most privileged institutions of education throughout the land. So naturally, all of the students were more than a little eager to meet him. I myself, a forced introvert though I was, was curious, and soon gathered from the various rumours that, even then, accumulated around him, that, although there can be no doubt as to the identity of his mother, the daughter of a Spanish _hidalgo_, his paternity was more than questionable.

His father's parentage was a noble mix of French and English blood; as such, the man's colouring was said to be quite fair. His mother, I'd heard, was a celebrated exotic beauty, with more than a few transgressions to her name. All of his siblings tended to be a handsome mix of the three nationalities, yet John Raven's colouring was completely Hispanic; tan skin, eyes and hair a deep brown, almost black. It was said that he was in actuality the bastard son of one of her native pages, and therefore his father cared little for his education, preferring to let him run wild.

This was about as common as sending your wife off to the mental asylum; the younger sons of nobles were liable to be left unchecked, and tended to run up gambling debts early in life, being forced to resort to crime, and eventually, death at the end of a hangman's noose. Well, we can't have all the sons of nobility running rampant now, can we? Think of how much more obnoxious society would be if that were the case.

To this day, I still don't know why it was that John Raven chose me. Perhaps it was my detachment; how I refused to flock and fawn around him like the rest of my classmates. Or perhaps he saw my quiet dignity and will through my withdrawn façade; perhaps he sensed my soul, so alike to his as it yearned for adventure. Whatever was the reason, he chose me; and despite everything that would later pass between us, I cannot help, even now, with the knowledge of his betrayals and my hatred, but feel glad that he did.

But from the day that he took the empty seat beside my own, we were friends, and from that very moment, in that one single action, John Raven, later to become known as Jack Sparrow, had unwittingly set in motion a chain of events that would culminate in one of the most bitter of rivalries.

**-x!x-**

AN: What do you think of that? And yes, in the early eighteenth century men DID send their wives off to mental institutes if they were an inconvenience to them. And the younger sons of nobility were only given a leg up in the world; an education and some money to last them the rest of their lives—it was always the eldest that got the title, estate, etc.

**HopelessBeautifulDreamer:** I don't actually see Jack as cynical; just wary, and who can blame him? But who knows how Jack sees himself… Anyway, thanks for reviewing! (And keep it up.)

**Please review!**


	3. The Little Broken Bird

**Gentlemen And Rakes**

_Chapter Two: The Little Broken Bird_ (Jack's PoV)

Sitting in a drifting fishing dinghy, the wind blowing steadily, and with absolutely nothing to do, I turned my thoughts immediately to the man I had believed I would never lay eyes upon again: Andrew Wilson.

He was _there:_ merely standing there, watching me with a detached interest, his expression completely unfathomable. But no, what was so very much astounding was the way his eyes had met my own; so cold, so unflinching… so dispassionate. Never, in all the eleven years we'd been acquainted before his final treachery, had I had difficulty in reading him. The sudden shock of seeing him here shook me to the very core.

And now, as I laid back down on the bottom of the drifting _Jolly Mon_, my thoughts involuntarily strayed to the very recesses of recollection, dredging up a long-forgotten memory from my past…

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My father had hated me. That was my earliest recollection; his complete and utter lack of consideration of my interests and general well-being. As a young boy, I'd never quite understood why—he seemed very fond of my elder brothers and sisters; but as I grew older, and as I disregarded my tutors' opinions of how the working-class contained very little news of interest for one as high-born as I in favour of eavesdropping, the news of my mother's many and various indiscretions gradually came to light. I'd never resented her for it; being forced into a marriage to the Marquis of Castlemaine, the younger brother of the more desirable Duke of Cleveland, couldn't have been very fulfilling for a woman of her disposition.

My mother, Nerita, was a beautiful woman, a passionate woman, whose later affairs stemmed from an unhappy state of matrimony. Born into a respected family of Spain, itself a very prudish and devout nation, she had been shipped off to England as my father's fiancée at the age of twenty-one; in the eyes of the law, an adult already.

The sudden shock of migrating to a country where the social laws of sexual engagement for women were considerably lax compared to those of her own Catholic upbringing (provided all extramarital activities be conducted with the utmost discretion of both involved parties), coupled with her own disgraceful temperament and scandalous views on female sexuality, meant that soon after acclimating herself to an alien realm, she soon embarked on a series of scurrilous activities and deeds that forever tarnished her name. It was from her that I had inherited the majority of my character; my attitude towards the double standards of the English 'world', my scorn for society, my hedonistic tendencies, and my fervour for independence.

From my father, a cold, hard man so alike all the other gentlemen of the world, I had acquired nothing. More proof that he was not my natural father, then—physically, we were both one extreme or the other; he was fair and pale, whereas I was dark and tan. Nevertheless, it was principally my mother I was close to; none of my siblings paid me any mind, knowing fully well that I was potentially a bastard, and my father and I, as a result, were never very close.

One of the principal things I could remember about my father was his ardour for hunting. He was never actually any good at it; his skills with a firearm left a lot to be desired. Actually, I have no idea as to where I had inherited my skills with both sword and pistol; my paternity was never actually confirmed, and although I knew full well that it was very likely that I was not his natural son, I still considered him my father, nevertheless.

One of the few incidents concerning my father that stuck vividly in my mind when I was a child was during one of our annual family retreats into the country every summer, where he proceeded to pursue this sport of his with an almost fatal fervour. My parents' legitimate children was thus: my brother, Charles, was the firstborn, followed by Isaac, Eva, my eldest sister, my youngest brother, George, my sister, Christina, Elisabetta, and finally me, John. As the youngest son, and at this age nothing more than a mere child, I was excused of accompanying him and my eldest brother, Charles, leaving me free to wonder in one of the several woods surrounding our country house.

So, naturally, I followed my father and my brother as discreetly as a four-year-old boy with an exceedingly inquisitive nature could do. I had always wondered as to what hunting entailed; I knew what the sport was, naturally, but I had always wondered why Isaac, only a year younger than Charles himself, was considered too young for such a popular pastime. I had a theory that it was simply because my father was jealous of Isaac's skill with a rifle; from what I'd heard, Charles hadn't fared much better than our father in that field. It was only after my nurse, Mrs Hatcher, had been lulled to sleep by the warm, lazy atmosphere of a Sunday morning in the country and her charge's refusal to go to bed at the specified time the night before, that I ventured to seek my quarry.

I remember stumbling through the leafy undergrowth, eagerly following the prints of the man and boy's hunting boots. My clothing was torn and my face scratched by several of the low-hanging branches, but I continued determinedly none the rest to follow them.

About an hour or so of this painful progress, with the bright morning sun filtering through the dense green foliage, and my face and clothing covered in sweat and dirt, did I finally hear voices. Cautiously, I crept closer, ducking behind a bush and crawling under it lest I wish to have an extra hole in my head when I returned to the house. The leaves and branches batted at my face, cutting my skin, and it was only then that my young mind realised that perhaps this wasn't such a good idea…

From what I could see, my father and brother appeared to be arguing over the next step to take in their little exploit whilst one of the stable boys whose sole purpose was to accompany the aristocratic pair and carry their weapons when they themselves did not require the rifles merely watched in hesitation and embarrassment.

My brother, apparently, was certain that there was a fox that had gone a certain direction, whilst my father insisted that there was no fox at all to begin. They continued in this vein for some time, until I began to wonder why I was so desperate to join their little hunting party to begin with.

My father, after ten minutes of petty bickering with his eldest son, finally lost his temper and, pulling back the hammer of one of his pistols, shot high into the branches of a fine oak tree. The sound of the pistol discharging echoed loudly in the near silence of the wood, and the stable boy jumped at the unexpected action.

After the silence slowly descended amongst the trees once again, I, unlike the hunting party that wouldn't have heard a cannon even if it had fired straight into their ears, could hear the soft, faint thud of an object falling to the ground. I was overcome with the urge to investigate further, but kept my place, knowing fully well that I had to wait until the three men had disappeared before my curiosity could be satisfied. I watched as my father ordered the stable boy sharply that they were to continue north until he had grown quite weary of this activity and wished to return.

Only as their footsteps died away did I venture to leave my uncomfortable hiding place, edging closer to the majestic tree. My eyes immediately spotted the creature that had so greatly peaked my interest; a small little brown bird with a broken left wing. He was quite a young bird; he'd probably just learnt to fly, and I could tell immediately, even though I was only four years of age, that the bullet had merely grazed his wing; the injuries were caused exclusively by the fall. (That's how bad a shot my father was.)

I gently scooped up the little winged creature, cradling him in both my hands, my mind already decided. Very slowly and carefully, I turned, picking an easier and more direct path back to the house than the one I had taken.

When I'd entered my bedroom, I saw immediately that my nurse, Mrs Hatcher, had been frantically searching for me. "John, you naïve little—" She halted mid-tirade, taking in my bedraggled appearance in horror. As soon as her eyes saw the little woodland critter that I had salvaged, she gasped, staggering back, and simply fainted. I didn't pay her much attention; she always seemed to be fainting at every little thing I did that I had begun to think it was as natural to her as breathing was to me.

Stepping around her unconscious form, I went immediately to my small bed, setting the chick down on my pillow. I stepped back, hesitating, uncertain as to what to do next; I had never cared for a sick or injured creature before, human or otherwise. With absolutely no other alternative, and motivated by the deepest sympathy for the small feathered thing, I tottered down to the kitchen with every intention of asking for help from one of the servants. I came across the butler first, and not knowing that there were differences amongst the servants' ranks, I explained my dilemma with childish simplicity to the man, and asked for his help. He raised his eyebrows but did nothing else to indicate his emotional state; instead he merely bowed to me and assured me that he will send a kitchen maid to my room as soon as was possible, and advised that I should return to my chambers and bathe before my mother or father caught sight of me.

He kept his word; within minutes a young woman had appeared, carrying strips of cloth and a little washing basin. She kicked Mrs Hatcher once in aggravation, causing the woman to jolt wide awake, and ordered the senior sharply to tend to her charge. This she did immediately, pulling me by the arm into my bathroom, and effectively leaving the girl alone to tend to the bird.

I stayed outside for a few hours to insure that my mother will not fret that I was ill for the remainder of the day, but for the rest of the evening I stayed with my new friend, assuring myself that he was fine and pointedly ignoring all of Mrs Hatcher's suggestions to release back into the wild.

As I settled into bed, my door suddenly slammed open, and Mrs Hatcher twirled around, shrieking. My father stood there. He must have been drinking, for his cheeks were flaming red, and he was also livid.

I heard my mother cry, "Edward!" before she, too, stepped into the light of my lantern. She still wore her simple white day dress, but it had been torn at the sleeve and shoulder, and her cheek was bruised, immediately telling me that my father was incensed by her, not me.

He paid no attention to her protests, simply throwing her off when she tried to restrict him. "Edward, please, this is ridiculous—Let him keep it, he's only a boy—This won't achieve anything—"

I had sat up, scrambling to the furthest corner of my cot, and sat huddled in terror as he advanced upon me. With one violent swoop he had gripped the little bird I had worked so hard to rescue, crushing his delicate form cruelly within his fist, eliciting chirrups of pain from the small bird. I let out a wail of terror whilst my mother continued screaming his name and Mrs Hatcher merely fainted from fear. With a sudden idiotic streak of bravado I threw myself at his arm, but having anticipated my action, my father simply pushed me back—though not enough to physically _hurt_ me; that was an honour he bestowed exclusively upon my mother.

With his long, powerful, purposeful strides, he was soon at my window, unlocking it ferociously, and with one brutal movement had hurled my little pet out of the window.

By now I had begun to cry, and my mother had wrapped her arms firmly around me, whispering words of love and comfort against my dark hair.

But my father had yet to be done with his torture session. Grabbing a fistful of my mother's dark luxurious hair, he effectively pulled her away from me, all but dragging her across my floor. The door slammed tightly shut, leaving me alone in the dark with my tears.

I sat there, unable to comprehend what had just occurred, and uncertain as to how to perceive my father's actions. I was just a child: I had yet to learn right from wrong, righteous anger from unnecessary violence…

But as I sat there, huddled on my bed, one thing did finally register: I would not ever turn to this man, a man who may not even be my father, to see how to conduct myself. I would not take from him my mannerisms, my clothing, or most importantly of all, his treatment of other people.

Any love, any respect, any wishes of having an actual relationship with my father that I may have harboured had gone out of the window with that little sparrow.

**-x!x-**

AN: If you think about it, this chapter was really weird; we had Jack lying down in a stolen fishing boat, thinking about the one time his dad threw his pet bird out the window. Random, no?

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jennifer123: Ah, now THAT would be telling, won't it? Yeah, she does, but not only him, so that's OK… What do you mean, they're a lot alike? In what way? Hm… I should already know this, shouldn't I?


	4. Dressed For The Occasion

**Gentlemen And Rakes**

_Chapter Three: Dressed For The Occasion_ (Andrew's PoV)

"I can't believe you're making me do this," I berated my companion as we huddled under the drooping tree, the rainwater slipping through the branches and drenching us both to the skin.

"A 'thank you' would suffice," he replied optimistically.

"_Thank you?_ Raven, I am _cold_, and _wet_, and _hungry_—"

"Don't be such a woman," he snapped back at me, his jovial façade evanescing immediately. "It seemed like a good idea at the time…"

"We're caught in a bloody lightning storm," I hissed.

"Well how was _I_ meant to know it was going to rain?" he defended.

"Overhanging storm clouds on the horizon and thunderclaps are the usual indications," I pointed out. "Use your head, man."

"My head is not my friend," he shot back, his look immediately turning into one of disgust. "Not whilst my hair remains like this." I stared at him in disbelief. There was absolutely _nothing_ wrong with his hair…

"Besides," he continued with an air of flippancy not becoming upon the subject at hand, "are you really in the mood for playing the rape victim tonight?"

I fell silent at his comment, pulling the soaking coat closer. "You're right," I agreed, "but couldn't we have sent for a carriage?"

He snorted, his brown eyes turning to stare at me in disbelief. "Oh, _come on,_" he rebuked, "where's your sense of adventure, man?"

"It's accompanying my dignity," I threw back icily.

"Come again?"

I clenched my teeth, shaking my head. "Never mind…"

"A carriage would be too easy to track," he listed, "and it's inconvenient as hell—we'll have to wait for it to come, and then we'll have to bribe the driver—need I continue?" He looked stonily into my eyes. "I think your dignity can suffer for want of a carriage for this one night, don't you?" he asked icily, condescendingly, as though I was an apprentice who should have known better than to question the orders and methods of his more experienced master.

But in this instance, I felt certain that not only was such questioning justified, but it was also necessary to the extremity.

"Ah, but that wasn't what I was referring to," I snapped impatiently, gesturing at my body. "John Raven, I am, at this very moment in time, seriously considering beating and robbing you as payback for this disgraceful degradation you have done unto me."

He cocked his head, looking at me in confusion. "Oh? And what, pray tell, is this great torturous indignity of mortification that I, of all people, have inflicted upon you?"

"I'm wearing a dress."

His coughing fit was conveniently timed.

"A _dress,_ Raven. With corset and petticoats and stockings and—God forbid—_pantaloons._"

"Well, it's not like there's any other way _you'll_ be able to get into a girl's drawers, is there?" he graciously called attention to, stifling his snicker.

I let out a crude remark which no proper gentleman would ever utter, and his response was to double up over, his shoulders shaking as he amused himself at my expense. Annoyed, I grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled, satisfied at the yelp that was emitted.

"What's the matter?" I asked of him mockingly. "I thought you despised your hair."

"That's—would be correct, yes," he admitted, clearly regretting the sharing of his random obsession, "but I detest pain even more, believe it or not—_Wilson!_ You son of a—"

My fingers tightened ever so slightly, and he cursed me to the very depths of hell, amongst other things, sputtering out the rainwater he was unwittingly consuming. Satisfied with this guilty revenge, I slowly unclenched my fingers.

"Bastard," he hissed, immediately massaging his scalp.

I smiled, innocently batting my lashes in response, and John merely frowned at the sight. "What?" I asked, my smug grin dissipating at his look.

"Nothing," he said hurriedly, shaking his head and spraying me with more water. "It's just that…"

"What?"

"It's quite disturbing, really."

"What is?"

His brown eyes met mine in all solemnity, all traces of mirth completely evanesced. "It's just that I found myself very attracted to you for a moment there…"

He skilfully ducked my swinging fist, his laughter returning. "We should probably be continuing on our way now," he eventually rasped out, and I inclined my head in agreement; the English storm did not show any signs of ending soon.

We fought our way through the mud and trees of Winchester's wilderness, until finally, at long last, the glowing windows of the sleepy city came into full view. Beside me I heard John's lips break out into a sly grin as we drew closer. He moved hurriedly, clearly impatient to arrive at his destination, and I followed uncomfortably behind, the long skirts of a kitchen maid prohibiting my progress.

John continued his path, moving by memory towards a little filthy alley leading away from one of the main roads of the town towards the poorer underbelly of Winchester. We stalked past brothels, slums, and decaying taverns, John skilfully manoeuvring his way past petty thieves, unstable drunks, and repellent whores, whilst I had to stay close by in order to avoid any unsavoury propositions from any of the men we came across.

He led me into a large, seemingly unoccupied building, leading me up three flights of rotting stairs to a little garret with a broken and unstable door, evidently kept closed by an object from inside. "Catherine!" he summoned, graciously knocking his knuckles against the door, which evidently splintered further.

I could barely hear the hurried footsteps from within this discarded attic over the howl of the wind and the relentlessly pounding of the rain before the door swung open and the girl threw herself upon John. She was tall and slim, with a thick mane of red curls falling loosely about her shoulders. I knew immediately that this was the kitchen maid who had so graciously donated me her dress, as she wore my clothes in exchange, and had my coat wrapped tightly about herself.

Her pale green eyes drifted over my form, and her eyes widened in shock. She suddenly pulled back from John, her pretty face a mask of revulsion. "What's this here?" she asked of him, although her mind had clearly decided what 'this' was. "What are you playing at, John?"

"You still remember Andrew, don't you, Cathy?" he said, making to pull her back to him, but she flatly refused, shaking her head adamantly.

"You…" Words failed her; all she could do was look at us both in unveiled revulsion. "You're…"

"Catherine, what—"

"Oh, you _know_ what, Raven!"

"No, actually, I can't say I do."

"Don't take me for a fool, John," she snapped icily. "I know sodomy when I sees it."

The look on John's face was priceless; I'm certain it greatly reflected my own stunned expression. "See?" I hissed at my friend. "I told you that the dress was a tad too much; next time why don't we have _you_ as the parlour maid whilst I'm the enamoured schoolboy, eh?"

"Catherine," he said in a low, manipulative tone, "surely when we—" The sudden narrowing of green eyes forced him to swiftly change tactics. "Surely I'd _proved_ to you that I lean towards girls?"

"It's so obvious, you know?" she continued, ignoring his hidden command. "Really, e'eryone hears about how students at schools try out _everything_ at least once, but I though that you…"

"Catherine, neither of us are attracted to boys," I added.

She snorted. "Oh, so all upstanding men walk around in women's underwear, do they?"

"It wasn't my fault!" I defended, raising an accusing finger. Sensing my next words, he adamantly shook his head, silently warning me that they were not going to help his cause. "He made me do it!"

"Oh, so it's only you, then!" she rounded back on John.

"Catherine," he said, his voice oddly gentle and forced as he slipped one arm around her shoulders, pulling her towards him. She struggled, yes… But that wasn't quite the same as resisting.

"You're right," he agreed, "most of our schoolmates tend to… experiment."

"I knew it!" she crooned, finger raised in triumph.

"And one of them tried it with Andrew here," he continued, jerking his head towards me. "Hence the theft of your dress, sweetheart."

Catherine's furious glare immediately evanesced to be replaced by a look of the greatest sympathy as she narrowed her eyes in scrutiny. "Someone… tried to rape you?"

"That's one way of putting it," John agreed, letting his hand slip down her back.

Her head slowly turned away from me to meet John's gaze. "And you ripped my dress off, left me lying in your room with only a blanket to cover me, and forced him into it, did you? To keep 'im safe from the other bloke, right?" Before either of us could gauge exactly what was happening, she'd grabbed a fistful of his thick black hair and pulled his face down the better to give him a kiss that was anything but chaste. I averted my eyes, certain that it was best if I was to be taking my leave soon, unless I seriously wished to be scarred until the end of my days… Well, the dress was a good start in that field.

"Oh, John, why didn't you tell me—?"

"I was _trying_ to!"

Catherine continued to hang off of him, looking desperately into his eyes with complete and utter devotion. "My God, you're such a wonderful person—a good friend, charming company—"

"That I am."

I snorted at this last remark. The sound caused Catherine's attentions to switch from John to me. "Oh, Andrew, I'm sorry something dreadful for what you've been through…"

I met John's gaze incredulously, uncertain as to what he saw in this seemingly dim-witted and easily manipulated girl. Yes, she was extremely attractive, but… Well, she just didn't interest me. As Catherine hurriedly got to work unlacing the distinctly feminine jacket upon my person, chatting all the while in a most irritating manner, my mind slowly began to recall all of the girls John had displayed a preference for in the past: Louisa, Margaret, Hannah, Mary, Janet, all five of the Fowler sisters…

In that one night, I learnt four things:

if an elder lad was particularly tall and strong and large and had a preference for the male sex, you _never_ turn your back to him;  
John had the ability to charm anyone to his will, including making me dress as a kitchen maid for "safety reasons";  
I was actually _willing_ to conform to his wishes (what you'd do for a friend, eh?).

But the fourth, and clearly the most important fact that struck me that night was the first _real_ difference in John and I: whereas John was more than happy to have a two-week fling with a girl of no substance and lead her on to believe otherwise, I, on the other hand, would rather have all or nothing, even at that age. I was quick to give my heart away, and I got all the more wounded because of it, whereas John never actually allowed himself into such a vulnerable position to begin with.

That memory always stuck out particularly vividly in my mind: not only was it the first time I wore a woman's dress, but it was also the first time that I began to notice any differences between John and I. And this was the distinction: when it came to women, at least, John Raven not only excelled in charm… but his dealings with them were a great deal safer and cleverer than my own self-harming methods. See, he never allowed himself to fall in love with one of his many girls… Whilst all I ever did was give my heart away.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Well, sorry for the wait there, got distracted by other fics… and real life. How I hate real life… Anyway, hope you didn't mind this chapter; it's slow, but it explains quite an important part of Andrew's character… eventually…

**TigerTiger02:** Oh man, I feel so sorry for you… Dredging up sad memories like that was seriously not my intention… The closest thing I could say I'd experienced to a bird dying was when one little bird (I think it was another sparrow, but I was too young to pay any attention to the breed) flew down our chimney. We got the electric fire removed straight away, but he was OK, and just flew away straight away, so that was lucky… But moving on to happier topics, I'm glad you liked the last chapter. That makes me so happy. I think I'll keep the next few chapters in flashbacks and then switch to the plot of this fic to prevent confusion.

**Please review!**


	5. Struck Down

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Gentlemen And Rakes

Chapter Four: Struck Down (Jack's PoV)

We were about fifteen, sixteen, Andrew and I, when the symptoms of the disease first began to manifest itself.

It didn't seem so serious, at first; all that happened was Andrew developing a slight disinclination for sunlight, but I just put it down to him fearing a tan, and so didn't think much of it. I don't think he was too concerned, either. Actually, we were slowly spending more and more of our free time debating how to repel the sudden plethora of wanton schoolboys attempting to _bed_ Andrew.

No, seriously; I'm talking triple digits here. It wasn't that Andrew was particularly feminine in appearance—I couldn't help but notice how a surprising number of girls suddenly began twisting their hair and batting their lashes whenever he was within their vicinity, although he himself was likely unaware—it was that a surprising amount of our schoolmates were firm advocates of what was known as the "Italian vice". And, naturally, they were all attempting to rape Andrew, who although a middle-class misfit, was very pretty. They tried it on me a few times, but soon stopped after four or five lads were sent home to recover from various "accidents". And didn't return.

Besides, they all loved and admired me. They wouldn't _dream_ of hurting me. Andrew, of course, was a different story…

But moving on: I remembered what had happened that caused Andrew to be sent back to his father: he'd fainted from sheer exhaustion. One minute, he was walking beside me along the cobbled streets of Winchester City—the next, he was lying flat down in the middle of the road, causing several fine carriages to swerve elegantly around his crumpled form. Completely taken aback at this unexpected reaction to a discussion concerning how best to unlace corsets, I immediately flagged down a coach and dragged him into it, ordering sharply to return to the school we'd both worked so hard to escape from.

The doctor that our schoolmaster had sent for was utterly useless: he'd suggested we _leeched_ Andrew, for God's sake. He spoke of the _vapours_: that medical theory that stated that all internal illnesses were to do with an imbalance of the liver, usually, but other organs could be to blame, and how such imbalances can cause 'vapours' to rise and so affect the head and other areas of the body.

I'd never trusted the judgement of any man or woman who actually _believed_ in the theory of the vapours. The parasite that was the doctor's recommendation was soon squashed beneath my foot, and I used all of my charm and wit to convince our schoolmaster to write home to Francis Wilson himself.

The father had arrived swiftly soon after, barrelling through the halls of the school, and all but broke down his son's door. I remembered how he sat by his son's bedside, his face pale and taut whilst his own personal physician conducted his own tests until early morning. Not really having anything better to do, and not at all in the mood for socialising or, God forbid, _schoolwork,_ I waited patiently with them both.

All I received for my troubles were aching eyes, a stiff neck, and the pleasure of watching the two men exchange glances of fear every eighteen minutes. After hours of sheer boredom, I rested my eyes with every intention of falling asleep in my chair.

It was only then did anyone finally speak:

"Is it as I suspected?" Wilson asked anxiously, his brown eyes never once leaving his son's troubled face. I cracked one eye open ever so slightly, my interest peaked.

"Yes," the doctor confirmed, wiping his hands with a perfumed cloth. "I am afraid that your son _has_ inherited the unfortunate Lady Wilson's disease." I knew very little about Andrew's mother; he had never so much as mentioned her, but from what I gathered from my mother's gossiping and backstabbing acquaintances, she was said to be a little… unstable, to say the least…

But since when was _madness_ hereditary?

Francis Wilson's eyes had widened—he'd looked back at his son in fear—his very body began to tremble, and he slowly reached out to clasp his unconscious heir's hand.

"So what you're saying, Dr Stewart," he'd asked detachedly, "is that my son is dying?"

Another thing I'd picked up from my mother's reluctant tea parties—the only reason she'd held them at all were so she could laugh me to sleep with hilarious impersonations of them in the evening—was that Mrs Eleanor Wilson was still very much alive. They'd scoffed at her husband's complete devotion to her, saying it was all an obvious sham—for who could possibly be _in love_ with a madwoman?

"Of course not," the good doctor said quickly. I assumed both men were still of the opinion that I was asleep in my chair. "Mr Wilson, with all due respect, sir, I think it best you remove your son from this institution immediately."

"And send him to a cell next to my wife's instead, yes?" The tone was surprisingly cold and clipped, yet the voice was tinged with despair and a paternal protectiveness which I'd personally had never experienced.

"No, sir," the doctor protested, "not at all. But the fact remains that young Master Wilson here should not be left in the care of schoolmasters and peers. My advice to you, sir, is that you remove the lad back to one of your country homes and there closely monitor his health. Have one of your younger sons' tutors complete his education, if that is your concern. But I highly discourage simply leaving him here, without a… specialist to watch over him."

"I don't wish to isolate him from society the way I had isolated Eleanor," Wilson put in sharply.

"And I myself strongly disagree with such drastic measures," Stewart replied. "But really, Mr Wilson, the best course of action would be to send your son back home."

* * *

Andrew wasn't in any shape to travel the next morning, or even the day after that. He was caught in a fever, drowning in delirium. The few times he _did_ regain consciousness, it was only to start wildly and move as far from me—or anyone else—as possible. His green eyes gaped at me in fear and horror; he wasn't able to recognise anyone or anything around him—he couldn't even remember his own _name._

"Why do you keep calling me Andrew!" he'd scream, thrashing madly on the bed. And when he wasn't throwing a fit, he'll simply lie there, eyes wide open but completely unseeing, as though dead.

I'd never seen anything like it in my life—it was first time an acquaintance of mine had actually _forgotten_ about me.

Eventually, his father's patience wore away, and he'd simply bundled Andrew into a hired coach, threw in all of his belongings, and left.

It would have been quite amusing had the circumstances not been so serious.

I wrote him letters after that; it was the only way we could remain in touch. A month or so had passed before I'd received a reply—from his father, of all people. I believe it went something along the lines of:

John Raven Esq. (I always remembered that first line—only the children born of viscounts and lower were given the title of "the Honourable", indicated by "Hon." or "Esq." As a son of a marquis, I was entitled to the grander title of "Lord".)

As you know, my son is currently unwell. His condition hasn't much improved since when you'd last saw him; if anything, it has grown considerably worse. His health is deteriorating faster than his mother's had before him, although my wife is still, by some sheer miracle, alive. I'd known since his birth that he, and his brothers, for that matter, were at a risk of inheriting her own fatal illness; but I had never believed that the Lord would be so cruel as to strike down my favourite child first.

And on and on it went, describing in rather impressive detail (which I really could have done without) the chronology of his mother's malady, for several leaves, leaving me rather sickened at the end.

Rashes, unexplained chaps and cuts, an extreme sensitivity to light—these were but a few of the skin complaints that Lady Wilson had suffered from. Lethargy, melancholy, blood loss—just how much can one single disease do? Because practically every symptom of poor health was listed as being a likely ailment for Andrew.

And of course, the disease had uncalculated repercussions on his mental and emotional health.

A characteristic that had always struck me as a little odd in Andrew was how quickly he fell in love with a girl—he never ever pursued a female for his own pleasure. Andrew always chased after a girl if he was _seriously_ considering a relationship with her—otherwise, he'll just leave her the hell alone. It was always amusing to watch his face after he'd had one drink too many and bedded a pretty whore that he didn't particularly wish to walk up the aisle: his instincts, as a man, were telling him to just get up and leave, whilst his more dominant gentlemanly reasoning insisted he compensate excessively for troubling her. That was probably another reason women were drawn to Andrew: his complete and utterly innocent sincerity and enthusiasm, sometimes so eager he appeared as though he had an ulterior motive. He didn't, of course: _true_ gentlemen never do.

And if he behaved like this _before_ this latest infirmity…

Just imagine being raised with the shadow of death hanging constantly over your door: your mother was a madwoman who could have unwittingly given you her disease, and as a result you'd known since the cradle that it's very unlikely you were able to live a long, full life. What if you that was what you wanted—a life, in every sense of the word? What if you wanted _everything_—a wife, a beautiful home, three or four children to strangle you to death every evening? I believe most men did actually yearn for such an idyllic life, or at least considered it—there were times when I personally found myself wondering what things would have been like had I taken the respectable path and settled down, although I don't think I would ever actually submit myself to such unnecessary torture.

But Andrew _did_ want a stable family life, deep down. But he also knew it was very unlikely he'll make it pass the age of thirty-five, forty if he'd also inherited his mother's luck and strength. _That's_ why he allowed himself to fall so romantically in love with every sweet girl he'd met, even as a teenager—he wanted everything, and he knew he had to have it _now_ or not at all.

So you see, even though I don't always agree with his actions, his methods, or his beliefs, I did understand his motives, and I sympathised with him. Even now, after his betrayal, how he'd taken up Barbossa's arms, and I spent a worrying amount of my free time envisioning how best to extract his intestines and hang him with them as a result, a part of me understood why he did what he did, and pitied him in his plight.

Andrew was thirty-four now. His mother had died at forty-four: the absolute maximum he had left to live was ten years. But I still hated him for his little plotting with Barbossa: I was still hoping to shorten that time span considerably…

All I needed was one final motive.

-x!x-

AN: No, I did not make up Andrew's illness from thin air; the disease I was trying to describe is called porphyria. It's an illness that can be inherited from a parent—50 for boys, 25 for a girl—which was what I did in this story. One of the symptoms is paranoia, along with depression and other mental illnesses, which was why I chose it—I wanted Andrew's character to be clingy and needy but also jealous and violent, and this seemed to be the best way to write it in. It was the same disease that George III suffered from, so there's a little historical accuracy in there as well.

**TigerTiger02:** Aw, that's good to know the bird is OK. Question: how many little birds have you rescued? They all sound like very sweet little incidents… Glad you liked it; I knew that I enjoyed the idea of putting Andrew in a frock ;) You don't have to worry about me rushing to put up chapters for this story; I know exactly where I'm going, and if it takes a while for me to upload, it's simply because I can't seem to get round to writing it or get it to turn out right… One very quick note on the other fic: everything up until Chapter 16 was set pre-movie; now it's all set during, which means that yes, Barbosssa's still alive, and no, Jack doesn't have the Black Pearl… yet, anyway… But Sierra doesn't know anything about Barbossa or Will or Elizabeth; no noe tells her anything, so she's pretty clueless as to what's happening around her, and I'm trying to tell it from her point of view, and cause she does't know anything, it's all very random and doesn't appear to be connected, and that's how everybody gets confused… I love confusing people; it's a hobby…

**cbs3:** Well that's OK; if you don't want to read this, then you don't have to. The fact that you left several very nice long reviews on my other fic AND took the time to check this one out means a lot.

**jennifer123:** Yep, that is how Jack got his name. Still don't like Andrew, huh? I don't really care, but can you at least say that now you understand him?


	6. The Flying Pear

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Gentlemen And Rakes

__

Chapter Five: The Flying Pear (Andrew's PoV)

"What do you mean, you're engaged?"

"By saying that I'm engaged, I mean that I've been unfairly betrothed without my consent nor my consultation."

"Ah."

An uneasy silence passed between us in which I fidgeted with a corner of my shirt. At long last, I spoke. "Who is it?"

"I'm not actually certain."

"What do you mean, you're not actually certain?"

"Andrew, why on earth do you expect me, of all people, to know the identity of my fiancée?"

"…Because you're her future husband?" I tried. John merely rolled his eyes at me in impatience. "No, really; do you honestly not know?"

"Well…"

"Come along, John, who is it?" I emphasised my point by throwing a conveniently-placed apple at his head.

"Ow! Since when did you start throwing fruit at your guests? 'Tis not in keeping with the conventional form of etiquette, you know…"

"John: who is she?" I pressed.

"Just a very spoilt little convent girl."

There was a pause. "You're marrying a convent girl?" He nodded. "_You?_"

"Yes."

"And a _convent girl?_"

"Unfortunately." I began to cough. He merely glared at me.

"What's so comical about that?"

"Well… There are a lot of different kinds of women I can imagine you with, John, but not one of them had ever received a convent education."

"Are you implying I'm more a sinner than I am a saint?" he asked, hands suddenly clasped together in mock prayer.

"I'm not implying anything—I'm telling you outright you're more a sinner than you are a saint."

"Well I never!" he exclaimed, hand at his brow in a melodramatic swoon.

I gave him a glance laced with concern. "Sometimes I worry about you…"

"People are always saying that…"

Another silence longer than the last fell upon us. John had appeared quite suddenly on the doorstep of my father's London townhouse this morning, swept—or rather, staggered—into the parlour, and announced, without so much as a "Good morning," that he was engaged. I'd simply stared at him for several minutes whilst he helped himself to the rest of my breakfast: "I'd jumped out the window before I could finish mine," he'd said in explanation.

Sometimes I wondered exactly what went on in the Raven household that rendered this particular escape route as mundane.

"Is she a merchant's daughter? A Catholic merchant's daughter?"

"Well, I doubt she's Puritan."

"Point taken." I took a sip of wine and stared pointedly over the rim. "But she can't be an aristocrat though, can she? They're all Protestant, or at least appear to be…"

"She can if she's French."

Pause. "You're marrying a French convent girl?"

"An aristocratic French convent girl, to be exact."

"But… But won't there be a kind of… a sort of… language barrier?"

"My education has, unfortunately, included the basics of French conversation."

"But won't she need to learn English?"

"Not if I move to France."

"You're moving to _France!_"

"Yes. My father is ecstatic; I saw him cracking open the wine cellar as I jumped."

"Was he ecstatic that you're moving to France, or ecstatic that you've jumped?"

"…I'm not actually certain…" he said as he speared a piece of meat on a fork. "You need a new cook, by the way."

"Yes, but moving on from my father's household arrangements: how did you manage to secure an aristocratic French convent girl?"

"My mother was sent to the same convent as her mother."

"Good God, how many convents are involved in your marital arrangements?"

"A minimum of two, I think."

"You _think?_"

"Well, I jumped out the window before I could hear the whole story…"

"Well, you should have delayed your jumping until you'd heard the whole story then, shouldn't you?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, reaching across the plate to grab an orange.

"What is she, then? A _chevalier's_ daughter?"

"A countess."

"So she's a widow, then?"

"No; like I said, she's an incredibly spoilt convent girl…"

"But—But then she must be older than you…"

He threw an orange peel into my face. "For God's sake, Andrew, she's a convent girl! Most girls are taken out of the nunnery when they've finished their education and thrown straight into society."

"Well, what would an aspiring English bourgeois like me know about the laws of Parisian society?"

He threw another orange peel at me; it landed in my hair instead.

"So she's our age, then?"

"Younger."

"Fifteen?"

"Younger."

"…Twelve?"

"She's ten years my junior."

"You mean she's _seven?_"

"Yes."

"But… But… But how can a seven-year-old be a _countess?_"

"Well, she's very spoilt, as I said."

I closed my eyes in exasperation. "Please expatiate."

"Well, her grandmother was the daughter of an Italian baron, and her grandfather was a French count. Her mother was sent to a convent in northern Italy, as was mine."

"Why Italy?"

"Oh, you know, centre of the Catholic faith and all that—Anyway, they remained firm friends after both returned to their respected countries. The count died, and as she was his only daughter, she inherited his title of _Comte de Vallauris_; then she married a _marquis_, and so effectively ended up with two titles. She gave birth to a son—who, by the way, did not receive a religious education—and then a daughter."

"And the daughter became a countess because…?"

"Well, let's just say her mother gave her a very valuable christening gift."

He drained my wineglass as I stared in shock, examining his fingernails for any sign of dirt. "They're getting quite long, aren't they?" he asked, waving his hand in front of my face.

"But—But you—You—You don't have a title! You don't actually have anything of value to an aristocrat, much less a French one! How—Just because your mother—I don't—"

"Andrew, breathe," John commanded. "Which just brings me to my next point: I don't think it's ever going to happen. I'm too far beneath her status. And besides, I have five years for her parents to change their minds and marry her to a duke of a kind."

"So… So you're not going to marry this countess?"

"It's highly improbable, yes."

"So… So you jumped out of a window, came here, ate my breakfast, drank my wine, and threw orange peel at me for absolutely no legitimate reason."

"I just wanted to see the look on your face as I calmly explained everything to you in a slow and frustrating manner," he justified. I retaliated by grabbing the entire fruit bowl and tipping all of its contents over his uncovered head.

"Ow, ow, ow—is that a pineapple? _OW!_ Yes, it is!"

He leapt away from his chair, his arms over his head, and ran out of the door, me and my fruit bowl in close pursuit.

"Her name is Nicolette d'Évignon, now stop pelting me with bananas!" he yelped in defence.

I froze mid-throw. "Is that meant to stop me from throwing expensive fruit at you?"

"Um, yes?"

"How?"

"Didn't you want to know the name of the girl I'm engaged to that will never be my wife?" he tried tentatively. A flying pear answered his query. "I guess not," he murmured, throwing a mango back.

It landed against my cheek with an audible splat, sliding slowly off of my chin to land on the Persian carpet beneath our feet.

And that was how we passed the first Tuesday morning of the summer.

****

-x!x-

AN: Hmm, I'm not sure if this is a vital plot point or just something really random, or both… This is what happens when my beta-reader and I collaborate; by collaborate, I mean I type, she throws random comments in, and we both watch a Sarah Brightman concert…


	7. The Grand Tour

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Gentlemen And Rakes

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Chapter Six: The Grand Tour (Jack's PoV)

"_You're_ going to Europe?"

"You've asked me that question so many times before, it's starting to get a tad redundant." I'd spied Andrew as I was passing one of London's many fashionable coffeehouses, coughing faintly behind a newspaper. He'd looked healthier, even if a little pale, and his green eyes were unnaturally bright in his white face. I wondered if this illness of his still held sway; he'd seemed fine when I'd unexpectedly called at his home a few weeks before. I hadn't seen him since, what with calmly explaining to my mother why I needn't pursue my education further and pack myself off to Cambridge.

"Ah, yes: a Gentleman's Grand Tour of Europe—educational, isn't it?"

"I think the actual term is 'culturally cultivating'."

" It's completely pointless, and you know it," he told me. "It's just an excuse for noblemen's sons to drink and gamble and whore themselves without any staining of the family name."

"Of course!" I concurred, making to steal his coffee. He hit my hand with the newspaper, scowling at me.

"Buy your own!"

"Too expensive," I dismissed, swiftly sliding the cup away from him and towards me.

"But what if I infect you?"

I raised an eyebrow in disbelief. Really, this mediaeval idea that insanity—even a mild case, like Andrew's—was contagious was beginning to irritate me. "I'll take my chances," I told him, defiantly raising the warm drink to my lips. "And I thought you knew all about the Grand Tour, what with your mother being an earl's daughter."

"Ah, but my father's but a common —though wealthy—merchant, with no aspirations whatsoever to joining the ranks of the nobility."

"Good for him—do you want to come?" I threw at him as he snatched back his precious mug.

Andrew's immediate response was to choke on a hasty sip. "_What?_"

"On my 'grand tour'—don't say 'no' so rashly!" I warned as he opened his mouth to reject the spontaneous offer. "Think about it, Andrew: Europe. How many non-sailing Englishmen actually leave this country?"

"Convicted thieves and murderers," he listed. "Merchants, governors, white servants, young girls shipped off to marry foreign fiancés, the religiously fanatic, Puritans—"

"I get your point," I interrupted, forehead creased in a scowl, "but how many Englishmen _willingly_ leave this country?"

"The merchants, the sailors, the Puritans—"

"Enough with the damned Puritans," I told him. "That isn't the point I'm trying to make."

"But I can't just go off to Europe," Andrew insisted obstinately, "the doctors will never allow it, and I'd rather not risk an earlier death just to accompany you as you make your happy way across the Continent."

I glanced through the window at the dark sky outside. It couldn't have been later than late afternoon, yet the grey winter fog filtered the sun's rays into a bleak, faded light. "Do you really want to die here? A change of scene—not to mention climate—would probably do you more good than any of the remedies your bloody doctors recommended."

He fell silent, examining my face closely with his dark green eyes. "Do you remember our early schooldays, when we discussed the various methods of commanding a ship—legitimate or otherwise?"

"You mean those sunlit days when we didn't bother attending our lessons or lectures or Sunday church services?" I asked. "When we compared the lives and careers of Edward Teach and Jack Rackham, and who was the better pirate?"

"And you chose Jack Rackham, just because he 'had a better name'," Andrew confirmed in an accusing tone.

"That and he had two mistresses on his ship at the same time, and neither minded the other."

He rolled his eyes. "You would… But don't you think—I mean, if you're still interested, that is—that this Grand Tour would be the perfect opportunity to…" And here he stopped, not wishing to say anymore on the subject for fear of making himself appear a fool.

I smiled. "Come on, Andrew, we both know that those were just two bored schoolboys' fantastical daydreams; we both knew, even then, that it was never going to happen. Never could happen. Look at us: an aristocratic bastard and a merchant's dying son—we'll never be able to pass as sailors, much less actual pirates. It'll never happen—physically impossible."

"So you're saying that you've never actually considered piracy?" he repeated, sounding faintly hurt. I glanced up at him in surprise.

"I'm the seventh son of the Marquess of Castlemaine," I explained. "I've bedded enough aristocratic girls and staggered out of enough of St James's nunneries with the first sons of peers of the realm _not_ to escape notice if I disappear. I don't move in the customary social circles a man of my birth is expected to, and I know that I have several brothers before me that must die before I ever inherit the title of Lord Castlemaine, and even though I'm not a familiar face in society, it'll still be noticed if I just disappear and then reappear as a gentleman of fortune."

"But there's nothing for you here," he gestured almost helplessly. "The only reason you even have an allowance is because you're still, in the eyes of the law, a child, and therefore your father is forced to care for you. But the moment you turn twenty-one, you'll have no income whatsoever. You'll go from gentleman to rake quite literally overnight, and from rake you'll go to debtor, and from debtor to peasant, and from peasant to—"

"I'm starting to feel extremely depressed."

"Well, I'm just saying—there's really nothing for you here, is there? I mean, yes, your birth gives you the address of 'Lord', and you'll go through life known as Lord Raven, but you'll be completely penniless, and there's no point in being a lord if you can't afford to play the part, is there? What will you do for money, but procure it illegally? Which you will do at one point or another; there have been plenty of aristocrats and gentlemen before you that danced at the gallows because they've no actual title or skill, and therefore no income, of their own."

"Oh, I've already thought that one through. The engagement with the seven-year-old countess has fallen through, as I'd fully expected—I was sent a miniature of her, and she was actually quite pretty, so I now assume she'll become a beautiful woman, seeing how I've met her mother… Anyway; as I was saying, the French countess has given me a wonderfully ingenious idea, I've decided to use my newly connubial-free status to woo a wealthy—and pretty—young heiress—which shouldn't be too hard, being the devilishly handsome 'rake' that I am—"

"And they say _I'm_ mad," Andrew murmured into his coffee. I deliberately ignored this rather rude interruption.

"As I was saying—I'll court an heiress and marry her, and seeing how I've the title 'Lord' prefixed to my name, there'll be many girls that wouldn't mind marrying me—"

"And if this dastardly cunning, well-formed plan of yours happens to _fail?_" Andrew asked of me rather unfairly. I looked into his emerald eyes in a hurt manner.

"What makes you think it'll fail?"

"Because you're right in the sense that socially-aspiring mothers would marry their daughters off to any old aristocrat if he had the words 'Lord' or 'the Honourable' before his name, but as I've said, besides a very weak link to London's high society, what else have you to offer them?"

I smiled knowingly at him. "Which brings me to my second solution. If, by some divine hatred from the Holy Father, I do not secure a prosperous match, then I shall discard of my Christian morals and values, and become, as one of St James's Mother Abbesses so delicately puts it, a 'tireless, strong, resilient stud'." I looked up at Andrew expectantly, seeing what he'll make of my choice of employment.

"…I'm assuming you're not implying that you'll put on a bridle and impersonate a horse at the races."

"Of course not: I plan on becoming a whore."

There was an extremely long pause.

"A… whore, John?"

"Yes, Andrew, a whore: a prostitute, courtesan, streetwalker, a man of independent means—"

"A _whore?_"

I frowned at him. "Why, do you think I'm too ugly for anyone to want me?"

"No, it's not that, John," Andrew reassured me. "I'm sure you'll make a very… pretty… whore… It's just that I assume there'll be some… difficulties…"

I blinked at him. "Oh? Such as?"

"How would you… do it? I mean, unless you're planning on joining one of the sodomites' clubs, fornication would be impossible, wouldn't it?"

"Of course not; I'll sell myself to women."

"…But women generally don't buy whores, John."

"You'll be surprised at the number of women I saw on St James's Street, very discreetly patronising the brothels."

"But… doesn't that mean that the women are inclined to other women?"

"No, the brothels of St James's provide men for the bored and aristocratic fairer sex, as you'll find if you'd get this ridiculous notion of true love out of your head and actually _set foot_ in one."

His cheeks visibly reddened in his pallid skin, and he took a long sip of the fast-cooling coffee, intentionally not contributing any further to the conversation until I changed the subject matter, which I did.

"So—my Gentleman's Grand Tour of Europe. Will you or will you not be joining me, Andrew Wilson?"

He met my gaze, his face still flushed from embarrassment. I decided it'll be kinder not to mention the fact that it wasn't my fault that he was a virginal prude that wished to wait until he'd "fallen in love". Although I was absolutely certain that the first time Andrew will fall in love it'll actually be lust, and then he'll look like a right daft idiot, but I kept my observations to myself and instead sat waiting patiently for his answer.

"You're not seriously considering whoredom, though, are you, John?" he asked of me.

I narrowed my eyes in indignation. "What kind of naïve country milkmaid do you take me for?"

He laughed. "I didn't think so, although I'm certain you would make a very pretty whore. No, John, here's my real question: when your Grand Tour is over, are you really planning on returning to London to spend the rest of your days as a lazy, unskilled, aristocratic rake with no financial income or support whatsoever, and therefore completely dependent on the love of wealthy heiresses and widows and close friends?"

"Of course not; you know I despise dependence on the kindness of others. I see it as a weakness, the easy solution for lazy men who would rather the parish cared for them. You know that's why I've always been such an admirer of pirates and highwaymen and all the criminals in between: they were men that saw their lives as they were, and then saw what they could've been, and so decided to reach out and take it—that life, and anything else that caught their eye—for themselves."

He raised an eyebrow in surprise. "But you just said that piracy was merely two schoolboys' dreams, and that it could never happen—"

"Why are you still so interested in going on the account, anyway? You're set for life, mate; you're the first of four sons and heir to a large and extremely successful business—"

"No, I'm not," Andrew said quietly, his voice quiet and sombre.

I did a double take. "Come again?" I asked.

"I'm not; ever since my illness was… discovered, my father had rewritten his will. Everything goes to Paul in the event of his death, and I, as a dying man, get nothing."

The gossip and exchanging of news within the coffeehouse masked the solemn silence that fell between us.

"But surely you'll be—"

"Provided for? _Pensioned?_" He gave a forced, mirthless chuckle. "You know I don't like to rely on people's kindness; a man's loyalties can change drastically, without warning—if you live off of someone else's charity, how long do you have until he finds a worthier cause to sponsor? Even if he is family, even if you are dying—_especially_ if you're dying—why let a marked man live a comfortable life if he's not long for this world?"

I fell silent, looking at him intently. I always knew there was more to Andrew than one would at first expect—it was what first drew me to him. But I'd never expected to see this pessimistic yet stubbornly determined side to him.

"So you're telling me you'll join me on my Tour if I run away to sea with you?"

"In a sense, yes."

"Just because we talked of turning pirate when we were lads doesn't necessarily mean we'll end up as sea rovers, simply because we thought and talked of it as earnest bored schoolboys," I warned him.

"I'm not asking to turn pirate; I'm asking to escape. Not necessarily with you; you can come back to London at the end of your Tour, for all I care, but I'll be looking for… something… something else, something other than this comfortable cushioned life I've led so far…" He shook his head, smiling at me. I tilted my head, studying him in the dim light of the establishment.

There was no way he looked, and no chance that he'll ever look, like a traditional pirate. He was far too great a fan of neatness and cleanliness, and he had a rather expensive taste, a compulsive fixation to possess only the best of everything. He'll probably end up as an actual "gentleman of fortune", rather than the shabbily-dressed seadogs that gave themselves such a title. As for me; well, I wasn't certain that I'll ever become a pirate. The closest I'd ever been to the sea was the River Thames and the fashionable spas of Bath, where, as luck would have it, I had taught myself to swim. What did I know of ships and sailing, of stars and navigation? I knew how to read a map and compass fine, all thanks to a few geography lessons and my mother's desperate whim that I'll receive an education fit for any naval officer—great fortunes could be made at sea, and she wished to provide for me in any way possible, seeing how my inheritance had been squandered instead on charities and "worthier courses". If worthier courses were to provide for my father's favourite mistresses, then yes, it was indeed a charitable one.

I looked at Andrew's grim, determined face, thinking how much of a landed gentleman he appeared; the fair skin that was just as fashionable amongst men as it was amongst women, although perhaps not to such great extents, as dark skin, like my own, implied a common background consisting of farming and work in the fields. His golden hair remained unadorned by a wig, as was mine; usually a sign of middling and lower classes, although his was clean and pulled smartly back with a silken ribbon. He wore tasteful cloths of dark colours; blacks and blues and deep reds and greens, with simple white shirts, and if he ever wore brocade, it most certainly was not of the bright, pastel, floral variety so common amongst the aristocratic and fashionable and those tactless fops that were the dandyish embodiment of the two. I suddenly realised that if Andrew was to ever try his hand at seducing a wealthy heiress, he would certainly be more successful in his pursuit than I.

It was a cruel and unfair thought, and my mind screamed that Andrew was a bastard because of it, but, as I left the establishment to wonder the city's streets in search of less courteous and less cultured companions, I was able to console myself with the fact that, in spite of his civil words and polite conduct and more classical beauty, he would never, _ever,_ be a better whore than me, for if we were both to enrol in a brothel, I would certainly obtain more clients than he. I might not be handsome in the fashionable way, but I was more appealing to the women that would patronise those establishments.

And besides, I wasn't so uptight. That always counted for something, didn't it?

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AN: The references to "nunneries" and "Mother Abbesses" were actually slang for brothels and brothel-keepers, particularly the ones operating on St James's Street. And yes, some did have male, um, "nuns" to entertain particularly depraved aristocratic women. And Jack lamenting that he was too dark to be attractive was simply a rare moment of insecurity, although tans were thought of being "lowly", but not necessarily ugly. Jack thinking he would make a better whore than Andrew was… just plain Jack, actually… I do too much research; it can't be healthy. This is a very pointless author's note…

**TigerTiger02:** Yep, but now I've had my fun and am going back to working with the plot. Things should be picking up in the next chapter, I think… I thought Will and donkeys had potential too, actually; that's why I mentioned it. And the disclaimer thing's a good idea, but Will doesn't come back for another eighteen chapters or something; I don't class him as a very important character, his righteousness was just annoying to me. As for the kennels; that's just cruel. I mean, it's rape; it's not like they could've asked the dog for consent or something…

**blushingbeauty86:** Yup, marriage to a seven-year-old; you just don't get that anymore, do you? Although a girl couldn't legally be married until the the age of twelve, but she could be betrothed at seven. Now as for the tattoo; where would I put it? It has to be somewhere covered, so how the hell did Will see Jack's tat anyway would probably be the better question…

**Anne la Jordanie:** Please don't underestimate my originality, although I am planning on making the reason why Jack ran away as one of those things that you don't find out until somewhere near the end, just to add to the mystery and to annoy more people… I think the reasons wealthy Europeans were married and/or engaged at such a young age was because their families wanted to make certain that their children went to a suitable match and ensure the continuation of the family line or whatever; aristocrats were, and still are, control freaks. I'll be returning to hell—I mean, school—tomorrow. We all have uniforms, so I don't have much of a chance to comment on people's tastes. Oh well; I'm sure it's all sickeningly pastel-pink and baby-blue and blinding white… And don't even get me started on what the girls wear here…


	8. The Pretty Whore

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Gentlemen And Rakes

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Chapter Seven: The Pretty Whore (Andrew's PoV)

John had disappeared. He'd literally just vanished—one week he was stealing my coffee and persuading me to run off to Europe with him, although he was elusive as to whether he would return, and the next I hadn't even seen him popping in to steal my bacon and entertain me with more tales of his mother betrothing him to French aristocrats. This abrupt silence had lasted for well over a month, and seeing as he always paid a visit about once a week, give or take a few days, since I was removed from Winchester and _properly_ educated at home (seeing how most of the schooldays were devoted to gambling, drinking, and various other forms of depravity).

Worried, I'd tried calling at his home, but his mother was too distraught to receive any visitors—I'd heard she'd taken to her bed. Actually, the entire Raven household was frantic, and I knew not why—neither the servants, nor John's numerous siblings, nor any other relatives that had migrated suddenly to the beautiful townhouse that was the Ravens' London residence, would even pause to glance at me. I saw a glimpse of John's three glamorous sisters: the ethereal Eva, sapphire-eyed Christina, and Hispanic Elisabetta, talking amongst themselves—Elisabetta, though the youngest, but by far the most aggressive, was snarling at a dark-haired aristocrat that was obviously looking at turning whatever tragedy had befallen the Raven kin to his own advantage, whilst the eldest of the sisters, Eva, distinctive as she was the only of the Raven women with her father's pale yellow hair, was sobbing into Christina's arms.

"Andrew!" a woman's voice called as, defeated, I'd started down the street. Turning, I saw Christina, swathed in unadorned amethyst satin, her long black hair curling over her shoulders, her deep blue eyes wide with worry in her golden face. "Have you heard from John?" she'd whispered, as though ashamed at even asking after her brother.

"No," I'd answered, frowning.

She'd looked at me. "I know he trusts you," she stated accusingly.

"But I haven't heard from him for near two months," I'd replied.

"Good, for that's exactly when—" and here she stopped, turning away, refusing to say anymore. "If you do see him, you'll tell us, won't you?" she asked docilely.

"Of course."

"Thank you, Andrew," she murmured, and immediately scuttled back. Watching her ascend the stairs, I saw her speaking to the eldest of John's brothers, Charles, as he apparently interrogated her on what she had tricked out of me, before he placed an arm around her shoulders and led her back into the capacious home.

It didn't take me long to come to the conclusion that something was wrong. And naturally, I also realised that John was to blame; out of all of his siblings, I think he was the only one to have "accidentally" blown up his headmaster's office…

So where the hell did he go? I knew that he had a fair number of acquaintances spanning across practically every level of society (excluding the more superior of the aristocrats; although addressed as "lord", they despised any man without an actual title) so he could have been anywhere in London or the surrounding counties, unless he'd sailed out of London on a merchant ship and was now somewhere along the coast. Hell, he could've been in Bristol, to the west. This was how he'd so very effectively disappeared, the cunning bastard.

Of course I was concerned; he was probably my only friend, very rare for a dying man with contagious madness. I also wanted to find out exactly what he'd done that was so awful his family, even his loving mother, had turned him away. A male aristocrat could get away with anything, from adultery to murder; women, of course, were another matter entirely. Well, last I checked, John had been a man.

…Well, he was getting there. He was almost a man. Half-man. He'll become a complete man when he gave up this ridiculous notion that he could make it as a whore, or more specifically, a fashionable courtesan. Courtesans tended to be women, or so it was said…

That was when it hit me: whatever it was John had done, it was probably something that the gentry would have, at the very least, frowned upon, whereas his humbler companions would have been in no position to take a risk for fear of sneers from their betters. If John _had_ taken refuge with a friend, he wouldn't have stayed with them for long. So where else could have gone next; who could he have turned to that wouldn't have refused him?

I was, of course, thinking about the ironically-named "nunneries" of St James' Street. The brothels would have been an ideal sanctuary for most men, had they been able to afford it; not only were they full of willing women at beck and call, but the more aristocratic bordellos were isolated islands in the sea of London's gossiping society, uncaring of what was happening in the rest of the city, unless a wealthy girl or woman had been brought to ruin and disowned by their families because of—well, the fashionable term popular amongst women was _"faux pas"_. The average nunnery remained blissfully unaware of what happened outside of their doors; all the women, unless they had secured the position of favourite mistress of a wealthy gentleman, stayed indoors, away from the prying eyes of London. Who could these women associate with? They had the mannerisms and interests of the upper classes, yet they plied the trades of the street, unable to fit into one category or the other. All they had was each other.

Of course, there were more fashionable brothels off of St James', such as Covent Garden, but when one was in search of a more stylish establishment, it was the best place to start. Although the "Turkish" bathhouses called the bagnios seemed to be gaining popularity, but I think I'll be sticking with the old favourites for now. Unlike John, I was extremely naïve when it came to businesses of _that_ particular nature.

* * *

Another thing about the nunneries; when it came to their customers, they were extremely confidential and unwilling to divulge information of any nature. For whorehouses, they certainly had a very high sense of morality. Good for John, but not for me, seeing as I was attempting to find him.

The buildings themselves were very beautiful, extremely large, and of the latest fashion; the interiors, judging from the receptions and hallways, were simply but elegantly decorated, and could have belonged to any number of aristocratic London homes, excepting the portraits adorning the walls, which were simply advertisements for the women that resided there; fashionably dressed, or in some cases, undressed, nymphs stared from the walls, reclining provocatively on chairs or divans, eyes either meeting squarely with my own, or looking elsewhere.

"Lord Raven?" a middle-aged madam asked of me. "John Raven?" She looked suspiciously at me. "No, sir, I'm afraid I've not seen him."

"Has he _ever_ been here?" I continued to enquire, a note of desperation in my voice.

"That's neither here nor there; he isn't here _now,_ is he?"

I felt my shoulders slump in disappointment.

"Who wants to know, anyway?" she asked.

"Andrew Wilson," I said, turning to leave.

"Andrew Wilson?" she asked sharply. "Not the eldest son of the Lady Eleanor, the daughter of Lord Yorkshire, are you?"

I turned back and narrowed my eyes at the impertinent woman, certain of what was to come next. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I am," I told her.

Her suspicious air immediately dissolved, and she smiled at me. "So you came here for _Señorita_ Esperanza, then?"

I just stared at her. "…Yes," I lied, wondering what this _Señorita_ Esperanza could possibly have to do with John. "Is that her name? John never told me her name, just where to find her…"

"Oh, she's a pretty one, Miss Esperanza," the madam agreed. "Your Lord approached us about a month ago, perhaps more, asking for accommodation for his mistress, as he was currently lodging with an unnamed friend."

I was still trying to get my head around the fact that John had a mistress, much less that he actually cared about her enough to make certain that she was safe whilst he was on the run…

"Well, I'd heard from a landlord that he'd approached that—"

"Yes, he did say he'll be sending you to fetch Miss Esperanza," the madam agreed. "Should I call for her?"

"No!" I said a little too quickly. "No, Madam, I did not come to retrieve Miss Esperanza _now,_ I merely came to speak with her concerning her… patron." It wasn't a complete lie; I was planning fully on speaking with Esperanza about John, now that I'd realised that there was someone who might have known what exactly became of John. But what I was surprised at most was the that fact never once had John mentioned Esperanza, who clearly must have been very important to him. Perhaps she wasn't his mistress at all; perhaps she was a cousin on his mother's side, or an illegitimate sister that he was quite close to, seeing how the other Raven children weren't exactly affectionate towards him…

The woman led me through a hall lined with unobtrusive landscapes, up a wide flight of stairs, stopping at a plain, unremarkable door. "In you go, Mr Wilson," she said with a delicate curtsey. I knocked twice and, swallowing nervously, slipped in.

There were two women in the large, simply-furnished room; one was a pale, delicate redhead with wide, innocent brown eyes and fragile features that likened her to a china doll, the other, a darker woman with shorter, straight black hair that was looking at me in a mixture of astonishment and mortification. I guessed this last was the enigmatic Esperanza.

"Oh," the redhead said with a glance at the shocked Spaniard. "Is this your patron, Esperanza?"

Mutely, she shook her head, still staring at me.

"Should I leave, then?"

Esperanza nodded, still staring at me in horror. I supposed that John had told her about me, and my little… illness…

"Very well," she said, picking up her silken skirts and slipping away. I heard the door click quietly shut into place, and then it was only me and the pretty Esperanza, still sitting in her chair with that horror-struck expression on her face. I found myself thinking how arrogant John was, choosing a woman that looked a little like him as his favourite, as we stared at each other in silence.

"So… How do you know John?" I asked of her.

Her brown eyes widened, and at last she spoke, in a hoarse whisper, "How do I know John?"

"Yes," I affirmed.

"You… _You_ are asking _me_ how _I_ know John?"

"Well, yes."

"How _I_ know John?"

"Yes."

Suddenly, she started laughing, clutching at her simple ruby bodice and laughing as though there was no tomorrow. When she'd gotten her chuckling under control, her brown eyes met mine, amusement still sparkling within my depths. "Why, do you think I'm not beautiful enough to be Lord Raven's favoured mistress, sir?"

"No; on the contrary, you're actually quite lovely…"

That set her off again. Esperanza was very strange…

"Do you really think so? Do you think I'm a pretty whore?"

"I never said you were a whore—"

"Yes, but I'm asking if you think I'm pretty?"

"Well…" I said uncertainly. I mean, Esperanza was quite beautiful, but I just wasn't attracted to her. "Yes!" I said quickly when she made as though to cry.

That just set her off cackling again. Of course John's mistress would have been insane; she had to be, to be able to deal with him.

"So… So you think I'm a pretty whore, then?"

"Yes, I think we've already established that I find you attractive!" Except I didn't, but I'm sure men less idealistic than I most certainly would have.

"So you admit that I make a pretty whore?"

What kind of self-loathing woman would call herself a whore to a man she'd just met?

"I suppose…"

"So," Esperanza said brusquely, straightening up and meeting my eyes, "now that we've established that I can, in fact, whore myself out until I'm filthy rich, d'you think I should do it respectably and marry a lovely heiress, or just take the more fun route and become a celebrated courtesan?"

…I should have known that Miss Esperanza was actually John in a whore's dress, like he'd forced me into only three years earlier… Except John, worryingly, seemed to be enjoying himself…

"I'm quite concerned about you," I told him for what felt like the thousandth time.

"Well, if I were you, I'll be more concerned about myself finding my best friend attractive than the fact that said best friend was wearing a dress."

"…But I wouldn't have found you attractive if you hadn't been in the dress in the first place," I pointed out.

"A mere technicality," he waved away. "So, do you think I should embark on a life of vice and intrigue?"

"Not in that dress."

"Why not in this dress?" he asked, hurt.

"It's just not your style: Too subtle, and the neckline's too high."

He did a double take, staring at my matter-of-fact expression. "Are you saying that my breasts are one of my best features?"

I curbed the grin threatening to pull at my lips. "No, not at all," I told him sorrowfully. "Actually, the best aspect of your body would be your rear, and as far your face is concerned, I think that you have a lovely smile: really lights up the room…"

"Alright, now you're starting to scare me." A pause as he unsubtly made certain there was absolutely no way his best bodily feature was on display. Frowning, his brown eyes darted back at me. "What's wrong with my legs?" he asked sounding hurt.

"I'm sorry?"

"Well, it's just you said I've a nice arse, but why didn't you mention my legs?"

"Your legs?"

"Yes, my legs. Are they not long or graceful or attractively-shaped?"

"…I tend not to notice men's legs…"

"Just the arses, then?"

I shrugged uncaringly. "I've never really thought of legs much—they've just always been there, you tend not to notice them…"

"Yes, but my arse has always been there, why did you notice it but not my legs?"

"Because your arse doesn't actually serve a purpose!"

He just looked very strangely at me. "Are you saying that I have a useless arse?"

"In a sense, yes—"

"That's so cruel! What a harsh thing to say about an arse!"

Only John would disappear for two months before suddenly popping up in a brothel as a whore to talk about the uses of backsides for half the night. When I'd eventually left the brothel at about two in the morning, I was none the wiser as to what happened to make him leave his family, his home and his comfortable life in the first place.

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AN: Believe it or not, but this chapter was actually relevant to the plot. A little bit, anyway. Sorry for the longer wait in updating this, I've less free time to myself now, so I'm looking at updating every two weeks or so, if I'm lucky. Also, I'll like to point out that I'll be working on this a little more than How My Perfect Life Was Inverted 'cause I'm at that point in the story where I'll like to bring in Jack's PoV on things, so I need to get the chronology sorted out there.

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TigerTiger02: Well if you have the rough plot all sorted out, then you've got about half the story done; I'm no expert or anything, but I find that it's easier to write when you have something to work towards. So once the main plotline's sorted out you can just create a couple of subplots (or not), characters, whatever else you feel like throwing in, but feel free to ignore me, I'm sure you don't need me giving you amateur advice… Anyway; I always thought that Jack came across as being quite a tolerant person, so I wrote him as having modern views in an eighteenth-century world, where people's beliefs were only just beginning to mature from the Middle Ages; in other words, Jack's just ahead of his time. Will's holier-than-thou attitude seriously annoyed me as well; he's so stereotyped and two-dimensional, and besides, I prefer complex characters who have a darker side to them, which I think was the main reason I disliked him. In the next couple of chapters Jack will be changing his name from John Raven to Jack… Well, I don't think Sparrow should come in straight away, so he'll just be Jack Duck or something… Jack Duck in drag… Suddenly I'm really intrigued…

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Anne la Jordanie: The guy in your French class sounds blind. Or he has very bad lighting in the morning. Or there was an accident in the washing-machine and all the colours ran. I could think of thousands of reasons, but I'm too lazy to list them… I see you've discovered the charm of Andrew; whereas Jack's just hot and charismatic and a smooth talker, Andrew's all polite and shy and a little innocent… Or he was a little girl in a past life… I'm totally intrigued by Jack being a whore; it's one of those things that will just come back to haunt him…

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blushingbeauty86: I think Jack's whoredom should make a reappearance in my other fic, seeing how it is quite intriguing, and see what Sierra and Pearl makes of it, but maybe that would just scar the daughter for life… Maybe Pearl could have tattooed the bunny onto Jack's ankle; little kids like fluffy animals, don't they? Don't worry about the Lord Raven thing; I just put it in there as a link between both the two stories, and it was only mentioned once, so it's not actually vital to the plot…


	9. Le Havre

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Gentlemen And Rakes

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Chapter Eight: Le Havre (Jack's PoV)

"This is absolutely ridiculous," Andrew muttered darkly, huddling beneath a lace-trimmed parasol as rain continued to fall.

"It most certainly is not!" I contradicted gallantly, adjusting my bonnet and placing a hand on my hip. "God, I can't half breathe in this…"

"Well, that's just what happens when you ask me to lace up your corset, so let it be a lesson," Andrew replied bitterly. A silence passed between, broken by the patter of rain and the creaking of the hull.

"You're only jealous," I said confidently, tossing the long curls of my wig over my shoulder and looking up at Andrew through my lashes in what I hoped was a feminine manner. Judging from his disgusted grimace, I had succeeded. "You're jealous because this shade of green complements my colouring whilst making yours look a little washed out, and you're stuck with that pink shirt—"

"It _is not_ pink!" Andrew snapped defensively, shrugging my arm off and looking out towards the crashing waves. Andrew was being very childish and immature lately; I think it had something to do with his seasickness, or rather my lack thereof. It came as a surprise to both us to discover that I would never be afflicted by so common an ailment, and he'd been ignoring me ever since.

"It's pink," I insisted, glad that he was talking to me again.

"No, it isn't!"

"What do you call that, then?" I asked. "Rose?"

He raised his eyes from the soaked floorboards of the merchant ship we'd boarded under the guise of a young couple eloping to Paris: Mr Andrew Patrick Wilson and Miss Petronella Marietta Baldina Pigglesworth. For some very peculiar reason, we received rather odd looks from whichever passenger Andrew and I deemed safe to introduce ourselves to.

"It's naught more than an extremely pale shade of red," he insisted.

"Which, oddly enough, is what the rest of the world classes as pink—oh, Andrew!" I added in exasperation as his hand went suddenly to his mouth; he dropped my parasol and darted, slipping and sliding across the deck to the stairs. He didn't return, but I couldn't blame him; who'll wish to be outdoors in this weather? Besides me, but I was protected by several petticoats and a recently-retrieved parasol.

Waving my fingers in a rather flirtatious manner at a miserably drenched sailor, who simply glared at me in response, I turned my body to look over the railing towards what I believed was in the direction of London. After another eleven days as Señorita Esperanza, Andrew had returned to rescue me from the brothel. Why a man in a brothel needed rescuing was slightly beyond me, although I would admit that it wasn't as fun as I'd expected: impersonating a whore as successfully as I had, all the other women had come to think me as such, and had welcomed me into their social circles with open arms (which, unfortunately, was the only thing that was open).

It was during these little gatherings of theirs, and usually well into the night, that the reminiscing began: of their homes, their families, their sweethearts, their childhood, and more often then not, how they'd found themselves on their backs for a living. One of the girls, a red-haired angel by the name of Elaine, had been cast out of her home by her mother, a widow who was to be wed to a wealthy wine merchant. Coming from Ireland after the death of her father, the family of four had been Catholic; however, Elaine's mother was soon propositioned by the wine merchant, who promised to wed her on the condition that she and her brood of three renounced the Catholicism and turn Protestant. Elaine was, and still is, extremely devout, and had clung desperately to her faith with such obstinacy that her mother had _sold_ her into the trade.

But Elaine's tale was by no means the least pleasant; many of the other girls had been raped, or seduced, or lured into a false promise of marriage; another, Mary, had been abused by her father for as long as she could remember, and had eventually fled her home in fear of her life: there were scars along her arms from when she'd shielded her pretty face from her father's wrath. And then there was Fiona, who had been raped by her sadistic drunkard of an elder brother, and many other horror stories besides those two. It would appear that most women found in brothels weren't there by chance, and well, it was hard to simply use them so selfishly when one realised that it was never their choice to be used so in the first place…

And now, I no longer feel comfortable in brothels; isn't that depressing?

I forced my thoughts to turn away from such disheartening subjects, thinking instead of my mother. Andrew had told me that she was close to death, and after what had happened, I couldn't say that I'd particularly blamed her. In a last-minute attempt at comfort, I'd written her a letter, hand-delivered by Andrew, in which I'd lied through my teeth about changing my name and becoming a cloth merchant and promised to one day visit her. Of course, I'd probably die before such a day came, but let's not dwell on such pesky details.

But my troubles hadn't ended yet. We'd been at sea for four days, two of which had seen Andrew lying as though dead in our cabin, twisting under the cheap covers; his little disease had resurfaced, and I had reason to believe he was silently blaming me for it. But he was back to a ghost of his former self yesterday morn, his colourless skin and tired, gaunt face being the only symptoms of his illness, and after a slow "recovery," had immediately thrown up. How a man can throw up that which he had not consumed was slightly beyond my understanding.

I sighed, subtly clinging to the wig I'd taken to wearing.

Four more days. Four more days until we'd reached the port of Le Havre.

* * *

(Andrew's PoV)

"What do you think of that one?" I asked irritably. Having just landing at Le Havre, earlier this morning, John had insisted upon inspecting each and every galleon, sloop, brigantine, and rowboat in the harbour for reasons he refused to divulge. All I wanted, on the other hand, was to strangle him and sleep.

"No. Definitely not."

I scowled at his stubborn conviction, more cantankerous than was normal due to my unpleasant bout of seasickness. "What's wrong with her?"

"What's wrong with her? _What's wrong with her?_ What's right with her! She's huge!"

"That's a tad harsh, John. It's not her fault she's a little heftier than most."

"But she is. She dirty and gigantic and absolutely ugly."

"Since when did beauty ever matter? They're ships, not wives!"

"Beauty _always_ matters, my naïve young Andrew."

I sighed in exasperation. "You're a hard man to please, you know."

"Aye, that I do," he agreed nonchalantly. "But if you think about it, that's a good thing; if I'm so bloody difficult to satisfy, that makes the one that I choose to be my lifelong companion all the more special, doesn't it? And I'll treat her well because of it, and then everybody's happy. But you—oh, you, Wilson, will just have any old thing, won't you? And you'll drop it as soon as you so much as spy something even slightly more attractive."

I felt my cheeks heat at his audacity. "I absolutely do not! Do you really think I'm that fickle? I'm not! I'm just trying to make sure I get the right one, is that a crime? Once I found the one—the one, John, I'll reach out and grab her and I won't ever let her go. _You_—You're just being picky."

"I don't like wasting my time," he dismissed. He froze suddenly, flinging out his arm to stop me from moving further. "Look at her," he whispered, an expression of awe and utter devotion on his face.

I did, raising an eyebrow. The ship that had caught John's eye was a fine specimen of what I supposed was a galleon; faded, perhaps, from lack of care and use, but absolutely beautiful. Not as large as the majestic Spanish vessel I'd pointed out earlier, but still incredibly intimidating. It looked completely abandoned, devoid of all life, save for a suspicious-looking figure swathed in black hurriedly clambering down the gangplank, arms wrapped defensively about himself, as though guarding a plundered treasure. I was immediately wary of the character.

John, however, suddenly began to advance towards the disembarking sailor's path. "_Excuse me, sir,_" he said pleasantly in French, "_but I couldn't help but notice—_"

His opening line was rudely cut by a mellifluous female voice: "I'm sorry, but I don't speak French." After identifying the person as female, my distrust only grew: why would a woman be dressed in the garments of a man, lest she was a criminal? John, apparently, had deemed this cross-dressing as nothing out of the ordinary, which, seeing as he'd only recently wriggled out of a corset, was not completely unexpected.

"Oh thank God," he sighed, swiftly changing tactics and removing his new hat as he gave her a small bow, "my nautical vocabulary is extremely limited in that language."

She looked up at him curiously with bright blue eyes, clutching what looked like a wide assortment of papers in her hands. She was dressed in shabby black clothing that were clearly a few inches too large for her; the darkness of the materials merely accentuated her fair English skin and her pale yellow hair. Catching my look, she explained in a quiet voice I barely heard, "My father has passed away recently, and as my mourning clothes have yet to be finished, my brother…" And she spread her hands in a wordless gesture. I didn't believe a word she'd said, and I doubted that John was convinced either, but he hid his scepticism well.

"Well then, may God care for his immortal soul," he'd said briskly, feigning sorrow quite convincingly as he held the hat solemnly over his heart and inclined his head in silent respect.

The girl merely shot him a withering look. "Thank you," she spoke icily, stepping around us both.

The look on John's face at his sudden realisation that he had just been rejected was simply beyond description.

"Ah, excuse me, Miss—?"

"Armistade," she answered as she turned back to watch the two of us following her.

"Miss Armistade," John repeated charmingly as she neared a waiting carriage. "Yes; I was wondering—"

"About the price of the ship, Sir?" she'd guessed easily, pointing at the vessel she'd just stepped off of. "The… _Fortune?_" she added scathingly; clearly, she wasn't exceedingly fond of the name.

He nodded, staring intently at her.

"Well, you'll have to discuss it with my brother, won't you?" she answered him, opening the door and pausing, clearly debating with herself before she met his gaze. "We are currently lodging at La Mouette, the coaching-inn, to the west of the docks."

"'We'?" John echoed.

"Of course," she replied disinterestedly, gracefully climbing in and pulling the door firmly shut behind her.

"Bloody teasing prude," John mumbled darkly as the horse started forward, glaring after the carriage as though his very life depended upon it. "I'll bet she says her prayers every night without fail and attends church for every Mass…"

"You're in love," I told him, slightly shocked at the discovery.

"Beg your pardon?"

"You like her," I interpreted confidently. "You're just hurt she hasn't fallen at your feet and declared her undying love for you just yet…"

"That's a possibility," he acknowledged, turning away to stare lovingly at the beautifully constructed ship. "Armistade, the _Fortune,_ La Mouette," he repeated to himself, effectively committing it to memory.

"Maybe you should write it down," I suggested.

"I'll have you know that I've a perfect memory—I can still recall the day I spoke my first word in great detail—"

"Yet you regularly forget where you place your left shoe."

"Oh, shut up," he snapped at me.

* * *

"I don't like it here," John confided in me.

I looked around the tavern of La Mouette, failing to see what could have unsettled him so greatly. "Why, is it too clean for you?"

"It's too _dead,_" he emphasised, taking a sip of locally-brewed wine and chewing contentedly on a small little French pastry. "Look at all of the people here."

"It's a coaching-inn, John. Everyone here is a traveller, simply weary travellers. All they want is decent food and a still bed for the night."

"Which is precisely why I tend to avoid _respectable_ establishments; everybody in them are all so very calm and tired and polite, they must all be mad." In John's highly-esteemed opinion, the whole concept of matrimony was completely wrong, so I tended not to pay him any attention. "And they actually _respect_ the privacy of their guests, which is just plain unnatural…"

See? Completely insane.

"Where do you think the disgustingly respectable brother and sister could have gotten to?"

"Shopping?" I tried tentatively. "Wait, I think that's her—turn around—"

I had just spotted a slight, black-clad figure entering the doorway, accompanied by a taller figure, also swathed in black. Both were arguing with the other furiously, and the man suddenly shoved his sister away, back out into the darkening streets. I grabbed John's sleeve as he stood, sensing that now was not the time for financial negotiations, and tugged insistently as he attempted to escape from my fingers.

"Will you stop that? You're fraying the filigree!"

"It's all faked anyway, I'll buy you some more," I hissed, pulling so hard he suddenly toppled into my lap. The unexpected fall was too much for my chair, which broke with a snap much too audible in the quiet of the inn, and the both of us fell back with undignified yelps and, on John's part, uncivilised cursing that could not have been any more inappropriate had he tried.

And as if this wasn't bad enough, we took the table down with us.

"Ow! Wilson you bloody cunt, you're breaking my arm!"

"Get off of my knee, John, it's not meant to bend that way!"

We were both suddenly hoisted to our feet by the barman, tall and portentously large, who yelled at us both in livid yet extremely polite French as he easily dragged both John and I to the entrance, throwing us into the cobbled street without any evident regard as to whether a carriage or cart was coming from either direction.

"Nice work, Andrew!" John beamed happily, lying on his back in a surprisingly contented manner as I sat up and shook my head. "Free drinks!"

I stared down at him in incredulity. "Are you going to be lying there for the rest of the night?"

"Maybe," was his reply, and he closed his eyes and started humming a little country ballad with a grin on his face so wide that it gave me cause to wonder how strong French wine was. Dusting myself as I stood, I was simply adjusting my coat and sword when the door of the coaching-inn opened suddenly and two hats came flying out to land at my feet.

It was only after I retrieved my own hat and dropped John's onto his face (effectively muffling his humming) that I saw Miss Armistade, sitting on the step leading into La Mouette, arms wrapped around her black-skirted knees, her yellow hair covered by a black bonnet trimmed with midnight ribbon and adorned by a single white rose, clearly fresh out of someone's garden. Her shoulders were shuddering palpably as her right hand clung tightly to her black reticule, and as I drew nearer I saw that she was wearing a glove made of a transparent black material patterned with black roses and vines. Clearly, her mourning dresses had been collected.

"Miss Armistade?" I tried timidly, uncertain if she wished to remain undisturbed.

Slowly, she raised her head to meet my gaze. "You're one of the two gentlemen," she told me, her fingers wiping traces of her tears away. "Enquiring about my late father's ship, is that right?"

"Well, 'twas only my companion that was interested," I told her truthfully, still examining her face.

She'd flushed under my scrutiny, and turned away. "My brother is within, if that is all that you desire."

Just as I was about to offer her my hand, John's flashed before me. "If you'll do me the honour, milady," he'd extended pleasantly, hat correctly perched on his head, smiling sympathetically down at her. Looking up at hearing the unexpected voice, she'd accepted the proffered limb in wonder, staring up at him.

"My… My brother," she began, but John cut through her protest immediately.

"I couldn't give a damn about some old ship when such a beauty is in such obvious distress," he'd told her with a chaste kiss on her hand. Her blue eyes widened at his forward manner as I started to cough—this man was unbelievable. Couldn't he ever leave a vulnerable maiden alone for _one_ instance?

"I… Thank you, sir," she said with a modest bow of her head. "Although I should be returning—my brother—"

"If you'd rather spend the evening within the presence of a man who'd thrown you out on the street for the foreseeable future than with a gentleman who'd never dream of inflicting such abuse, mild though it may be, I will not dream of standing in your way."

I'd stopped coughing and was simply staring at him now, mouth agape. This prattling of his seemed to actually be _working_…

"I suppose you overheard our rather heated exchange, sir," she murmured docilely to him, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that actually, he hadn't, he'd simply seen the siblings quarrelling and interpreted the situation correctly. "And the reason you're showing such kindness to me is because you wished to purchase my ship, yes?"

John and I met each other's stunned gazes: _Her_ ship? "I beg your pardon, Miss Armistade?" I asked.

Now she did meet my eyes. "Well, yes," she confirmed. "My brother was saying that it was most unnatural, for a merchant to die and leave his business to his _son,_ but his fastest and most beloved ship to his _daughter,_ when it could not be more apparent that a woman would never find a use for such a vessel, and it was on these grounds that he was attempting to swindle me out of my inheritance." She opened her reticule, pulling out several sheets of folded paper. "These are the documents my father had left aboard the _Fortune,_" she told us both shyly, confidentially, "naming me the lawful owner of the craft. When you saw me on the docks earlier today, I was merely retrieving these articles from my father's cabin, before my brother could find them."

"But… Why _would_ a merchant leave a ship to his daughter and a business to his son?" John asked in seemingly innocent confusion, though I sensed that he was secretly working on how best to turn this latest development to his advantage.

She smiled shyly again, ducking her head in embarrassment. "My father always said that I was his favourite child; he'd have left everything to me, but I've not a head for money and figures. 'Tis nothing more than a last sentiment, sirs." She sniffled slightly, her hand rising to her face in embarrassment. "Please excuse me, gentlemen, I've not been mistress of my emotions of late," she apologised, quietly withdrawing her hand from John's and turning away to hurry back into the coaching-inn. She paused, hand resting on the closed door, and turned to look at us both, studying us intently with those bright blue eyes of hers from beneath the brim of her bonnet.

"I apologise if you find me rude, but I had not yet asked for your names," she said, looking inquisitively from one of us to the other.

"Andrew Wilson," I said as her eyes sought out mine, and she looked away, blushing faintly. Which I couldn't really understand at all; it was clear John was more to her liking.

"You can call me Jack," John spoke up suddenly, examining her courteous black-clad form lazily. I turned to look at him, a stunned expression upon my face.

Miss Armistade smiled faintly. "I always dine alone at noon," were her parting words, and she was gone.

"'Jack'?" I repeated as soon as the door was closed against the cold night.

"Yes?" John replied.

"Your name's not Jack."

"Of course it is."

"No it isn't."

"I think you'll find that it is."

"And I think you'll find that it isn't; your name is John: John Anthony Raven."

"Actually, it's _Jack:_ Jack… Charlie?" I stared at him, but he wasn't paying the least attention to me. "No, that would never work," he muttered to himself, adjusting the lapels of his coat and flicking imaginary dust off of his sleeves. "Perhaps I should just skip the middle name altogether… Jack Raven's horrible as well, actually, and it'll be too suspicious if one Raven shows up just as another disappears… Jack Fowler? Jack Blackbird? Jack Duck? …No…"

"Um, John?" I asked tentatively, wondering if he'd completely lost his mind.

"Jack Goose, Jack Quill—why the hell was there a Jack Rackham before me? That's quite a difficult name to outdo—Jack Kingston, Jack Black, Jack Daniels, Jack Richardson—"

"Jack Ass?" I contributed.

"I appreciate the input—Jack Thomas, Jack Dales, Jack… Jack…" he paused, looking down at the thick silver ring that had been his father's as though entranced. "Of course…" he murmured, more to himself than anybody else. "So simple—if I was a superstitious man, I'd say it was predestined, but I threw out my chicken's foot years ago…" His right hand dropped and he started to swagger away, humming another ballad vaguely familiar to me and leaving me standing in front of La Mouette like a very confused-looking idiot.

"John!" I called, striding after him, but he paid me no mind, hands placed in the pockets of his coat as he continued to hum the cheerful tune of a maid and her sweetheart on May Day. "_John!_ Jack!"

He stopped humming and turned to look at me pleasantly. "Yes?"

"Have you completely lost your mind? 'Jack Duck'?"

"Who's Jack Duck?" he asked, brown eyes wide, completely at a loss.

"You!"

"I'm afraid you must've confused me with someone else," he said, smiling pleasantly. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."

I stared at him as he smiled widely at me, as though I should have known that he was no longer John Raven.

Jack Sparrow. It would never catch on.

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AN: As always, apologies for the slowness of my updating, but at least I'm finally getting somewhere with the story.

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solitairebbw218: Thanks so much, I'm glad you're enjoying my little contribution to the world of fan fiction, and I hope this made up for the wait… I need to start writing faster…

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Kitty-Kat26: Yay, glad you like. What do you think of this latest offering so far?

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Anne la Jordanie: Jack would've seduced Andrew, except it was pretty obvious that Andrew was having none of it, seeing as he'd grudgingly admitted that Jack was pretty. Ah, Jackia… I need to get over my writer's block for that one, I'm starting to miss Flavio… Oh, and the neediness IS Andrew's charm—you know, there are some women out there who are very maternal and like to look after people, and then there are others who enjoy how he seems to worship them on his knees, and those are the types of women Andrew attracts, hence his charm, although most just find him annoying… Whatever, he's rich.

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TigerTiger02: We have weirder conversations—there was one about the technical definition rape, which, looking back, was actually really disturbing… I class myself as amateur, as I don't write professionally, unfortunately; you know I write just for fun, just for the reviews, just because I'm high, although I do have a few ideas for original stories that need a little work before I can put it to paper, so it's just fan fiction for the time being. Come to think of it, some of my ideas are based on my fan fiction, so it'll probably be easier if I started with those first…


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